ZJT 


THE 


BOOK   OF  THE  EAST, 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES    R.   OSGOOD   AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
l8yi. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY  JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   &   CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

A  WOMAN'S  POEM * 

WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN 6 

AFTER  THE  FUNERAL T3 

ON  THE  TOWN       .                l6 

THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE 23 

THE  LITTLE  DRUMMER 42 

WHEN  THIS  OLD  FLAG  WAS  NEW 4$ 

A  NEW  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 6o 

THE  WINE-CUP 68 

THE  KING'S  SENTINEL 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CRECY     .        .        .  .     .        •        •        .81 

ROME 86 

C/ESAK 90 

MARE  VICTUM 95 

AISRAHAM  LINCOLN I03 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  Isis IJ3 

"WHY   STAND   YE   GAZING?" I22 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE I25 

ADSUM I3I 

VATES  PATRICE T33 

AT  GADSHILL •  T38 


IV  CONTENTS. 

TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER 142 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN  FOR  AMERICA         .        .        .        .144 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE 146 

AN  INVOCATION 148 

A  CATCH 150 

THE  KING  is  COLD 152 

THE  MESSENGER  AT  NIGHT 154 

OUT  TO  SEA 155 

A  GREEK  SONG 157 

"WANDERING  ALONG  A. WASTE" 158 

LOVE  THY  NEIGHBOR 160 

WHAT'S  MY  LOVE  LIKE? 161 

HEAD  OR  HEART? 162 

DRIFTING 164 

THE  PROUD  LOVER 167 

"I  KNOW   A   LITTLE    ROSE " 167 

THE  DYING  LOVER !68 

UNDER  THE  ROSE ^9 

EVEN-SONG 17o 

UNDER  THE  TREES 171 

A  BEGGAR  SONG 172 

BIRDS !73 

"I  AM    DREARY   AND   GRAY" 173 

" IT  is  A  WINTER  NIGHT" 174 

LEAVES 174 

COURAGE  AND  PATIENCE 175 

"WHAT  SHALL  I  DO  TO  LIVE  ARIGHT?"     .        .        .  176 

To  BAYARD  TAYLOR 177 


CONTENTS.  V 

To  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN        .        .        .        .  178 

To  JAMES  LORIMER  GRAHAM,  JR 179 

COLONEL  FREDERICK  TAYLOR 180 

To  JERVIS  MC£NTEE,  ARTIST 181 

FLORENCE  NIGHTINGALE 182 

To  A  FRIEND 183 

IN  MEMORIAM i84 

"lam  followed  by  a  spirit" i84 

"  What  shall  I  sing,  and  how"       .         .         .         .  i8-t 

"The  Christmas-time  drew  slowly  ncai  "           .         .  186 

"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands "          .         .         .  187 

'•  I  sit  in  my  lonesome  chamber  "      ....  iSS 

"  You  think  —  I  see  it  by  your  looks  ".         .         .  189 

"  What  shall  we  do  when  those  we  love  "         .         .  190 

"  We  sat  by  the  cheerless  fireside''        .         .         .  192 

"  It  looks  in  at  the  window" 193 

"  What  shall  I  do  next  summer  ?"         ...  194 

"This  book  of  dirges,  if  it  be" 196 

"  When  first  he  died  there  was  no  day  "         .         .  196 

"  The  dreary  winter  days  are  past ".         .         .         .  197 

"  Out  of  the  deeps  of  heaven  "        ....  199 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST 201 

PERSIAN    SONGS 2OI 

TARTAR    SONGS        .           .           .           .           .           •           •           .  2l6 

ARAB    SONGS 223 

CHINESE   SONGS 23! 


A  WOMAN'S   POEM. 

OU  say  you  love  me,  and  you  lay 

Your  hand  and  fortune  at  my  feet : 
I  thank  you,  sir,  with  all  my  heart, 
For  love  is  sweet. 

It  is  but  little  to  you  men, 

To  whom  the  doors  of  Life  stand  wide  ; 
But  much,  how  much  to  woman  !     She 
Has  naught  beside. 

You  make  the  worlds  wherein  you  move, 

You  rule  your -tastes,  or  coarse,  or  fine  ; 
Dine,  hunt,  or  fish,  or  waste  your  gold 
At  dice  and  wine. 

Our  world  (alas,  you  make  that  too !) 

Is  narrower,  —  shut  in  four  blank  walls  : 
Know  you,  or  care,  what  light  is  there  ? 
What  shadow  falls  ? 


A    WOMAN  S    POEM. 

We  read  the  last  new  novel  out, 

And  live  in  dream-land  till  it  ends  : 
We  write  romantic  school-girl  notes, 

That  bore  our  friends. 

We  learn  to  trill  Italian  songs, 

And  thrum  for  hours  the  tortured  keys 
We  think  it  pleases  you,  and  we 

But  live  to  please. 

We  feed  our  birds,  we  tend  our  flowers, 
(Poor  in-door  things  of  sickly  bloom,) 
Or  play  the  housewife  in  our  gloves, 
And  dust  the  room. 

But  some  of  us  have  hearts  and  minds,  — 

So  much  the  worse  for  us  and  you ; 
For  grant  we  seek  a  better  life, 

What  can  we  do  ? 

We  cannot  build  and  sail  your  ships, 

Or  drive  your  engines  ;  we  are  weak, 
And  ignorant  of  the  tricks  of  Trade  : 

To  think,  and  speak, 


A   WOMAN  S    POEM.  ': 

Or  write  some  earnest,  stammering  words 

Alone  is  ours,  and  that  you  hate  ; 
So  forced  within  ourselves  again, 

We  sigh  and  wait. 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  bitter  hours, 

The  dreary  days,  that  women  spend  ? 
Their  thoughts  unshared,  their  lives  unknown, 
Without  a  friend ! 

Without  a  friend  ?     And  what  is  he, 

Who,  like  a  shadow,  day  and  night, 
Follows  the  woman  he  prefers, 

Lives  in  her  sight  ? 

Her  lover,  he  :  a  gallant  man, 
Devoted  to  her  every  whim  ; 
He  vows  to  die  for  her,  so  she 

Must  live  for  him ! 

We  should  be  very  grateful,  sir, 

That,  when  you  Ve  nothing  else  to  do, 
You  waste  your  idle  hours  on  us,  — 
So  kind  of  you ! 


A   WOMAN  S    POEM. 

Profuse  in  studied  compliments, 

Your  manners,  like  your  clothes,  are  fine, 
Though  both  at  times  are  somewhat  strong 
Of  smoke  and  wine  ! 

What  can  we  hope  to  know  of  you  ? 

Or  you  of  us  ?     We  act  our  parts  : 
We  love  in  jest :  it  is  the  play 

Of  hands,  not  hearts  ! 

You  grant  my  bitter  words  are  true 

Of  others,  not  of  you  and  me  ; 
Your  love  is  steady  as  a  star : 

But  we  shall  see. 

You  say  you  love  me :  have  you  thought 
How  much  those  little  words  contain  ? 
Alas  !  a  world  of  happiness, 

And  worlds  of  pain  ! 

You  know,  or  should,  your  nature  now, 

Its  needs  and  passions.     Can  I  be 
WThat  you  desire  me  ?     Do  you  find 
Your  all  in  me? 


A   WOMAN  S    POEM. 

You  do.     But  have  you  thought  that  I 
May  have  my  ways  and  fancies,  too  ? 
You  love  me  ;  well,  but  have  you  thought 
If  I  love  you  ? 

But  think  again.     You  know  me  not : 

I,  too,  may  be  a  butterfly, 
A  costly  parlor  doll  on  show 

For  you  to  buy. 

You  trust  me  wholly  ?     One  word  more. 
You  see  me  young  :  they  call  me  fair : 
I  think  I  have  a  pleasant  face, 

And  pretty  hair. 

But  by  and  by  my  face  will  fade ; 

It  must  with  time,  it  may  with  care : 
What  say  you  to  a  wrinkled  wife, 

With  thin,  gray  hair  ? 

You  care  not,  you :  in  youth,  or  age, 

Your  heart  is  mine,  while  life  endures : 
Is  't  so  ?     Then,  Arthur,  here  's  my  hand 
My  heart  is  yours. 


WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. 


WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. 


r  I  ^HE  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds 

-*-     Go  stabbing  about  with  their  icy  spears  ; 
The  sharp  hail  rattles  against  the  panes, 
And  melts  on  my  cheek  like  tears. 

'T  is  a  terrible  night  to  be  out  of  doors, 

But  some  of  us  must  be,  early  and  late ; 
We  need  n't  ask  who,  for  don't  we  know 
It  has  all  been  settled  by  Fate  ? 

Not  woman,  but  man.     Give  woman  her  flowers, 
Her  dresses,  her  jewels,  or  what  she  demands 
The  work  of  the  world  must  be  done  by  man, 
Or  why  has  he  brawny  hands  ? 

As  I  feel  my  way  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

I  think  of  the  chambers  warm  and  bright,  — 
The  nests  where  these  delicate  birds  of  ours 
Are  folding  their  wings  to-night. 


WITHOUT    AND    WITHIN.  7 

Through  the  luminous  windows,  above  and  below, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  life  they  lead  : 
Some  sew,  some  sing,  others  dress  for  the  ball, 
While  others,  fair  students,  read. 

There  's  the  little  lady  who  bears  my  name,  — 

She  sits  at  my  table  now,  pouring  her  tea ; 
Does  she  think  of  me  as  I  hurry  home, 
Hungry  and  wet  ?     Not  she. 

She  helps  herself  to  the  sugar  and  cream 

In  a  thoughtless,  dreamy,  nonchalant  way ; 
Her  hands  are  white  as  the  virgin  rose 

That  she  wore  on  her  wedding  day. 

My  clumsy  fingers  are  stained  with  ink, — 

The  badge  of  the  Ledger,  the  mark  of  Trade  ; 
But  the  money  I  give  her  is  clean  enough, 
In  spite  of  the  way  it  is  made. 

I  wear  out  my  life  in  the  counting-room 

Over  day-book  and  cash-book,  Bought  and  Sold  ; 
My  brain  is  dizzy  with  anxious  thought, 
My  skin  is  as  sallow  as  gold. 


8  WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. 

How  does  she  keep  the  roses  of  youth 

Still  fresh  in  her  cheek  ?     My  roses  are  flown  : 
It  lies  in  a  nutshell,  —  why  do  I  ask  ? 
A  woman's  life  is  her  own. 

She  gives  me  a  kiss  when  we  part  for  the  day, 

Then  goes  to  her  music,  blithe  as  a  bird ; 
She  reads  it  at  sight,  and  the  language  too, 
Though  I  know  never  a  word ! 

She  sews  a  little,  makes  collars  and  sleeves, 

Or  embroiders  me  slippers  (always  too  small), 
Nets  silken  purses  (for  me  to  fill), 
Often  does  nothing  at  all 

But  dream  in  her  chamber,  holding  a  flower, 

Or  reading  my  letters  —  she  'd  better  read  me  ; 
Even  now,  while  I  am  freezing  with  cold, 
She  is  cosily  sipping  her  tea. 

If  I  ever  reach  home  I  shall  laugh  aloud 

At  the  sight  of  a  roaring  fire  once  more : 
She  must  wait,  I  think,  till  I  thaw  myself, 
For  the  usual  kiss  at  the  door. 


WITHOUT  AND   WITHIN*  9 

I  '11  have  with  my  dinner  a  bottle  of  port, 

To  warm  up  my  blood  and  soothe  my  mind ; 
Then  a  little  music,  for  even  I 

Like  music  —  when  I  have  dined. 

I  '11  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  easy-chair, 

And  feel  her  behind  me  patting  my  head ; 
Or,  drawing  the  little  one  on  my  knee, 
Chat  till  the  hour  for  bed. 

ii. 
Will  he  never  come  ?     I  have  watched  for  him 

Till  the  misty  panes  are  roughened  with  sleet ; 
I  can  see  no  more  :  shall  I  never  hear 
The  welcome  sound  of  his  feet  ? 

I  think  of  him  in  the  lonesome  night, 

Tramping  along  with  a  weary  tread, 
And  wish  he  were  here  by  the  cheery  fire, 
Or  I  were  there  in  his  stead. 

I  sit  by  the  grate,  and  hark  for  his  step, 

And  stare  in  the  fire  with  a  troubled  mind  ; 
The  glow  of  the  coals  is  bright  in  my  face, 
But  my  shadow  is  dark  behind. 


IO  WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. 

I  think  of  woman,  and  think  of  man,  — 

The  tie  that  binds  and  the  wrongs  that  part, 
And  long  to  utter  in  burning  words 

What  I  feel  to-night  in  my  heart. 

No  weak  complaint  of  the  man  I  love, 

No  praise  of  myself,  or  my  sisterhood  ; 
But  —  something  that  women  understand  — 
By  men  never  understood. 

Their  natures  jar  in  a  thousand  things ; 

Little  matter,  alas,  who  is  right  or  wrong, 
She  goes  to  the  wall !     "  She  is  weak,"  they  say  : 
It  is  that  which  makes  them  strong. 

But  grant  us  weak  (as  in  truth  we  are 

In  our  love  for  them),  they  should  make  us  strong ; 
But  do  they  ?     Will  they  ?     "  Woman  is  weak  !  " 
Is  the  burden  still  of  their  song. 

Wherein  am  I  weaker  than  Arthur,  pray  ? 

He  has,  as  he  should,  a  sturdier  frame, 
And  he  labors  early  and  late  for  me, 
But  I  —  I  could  do  the  same. 


WITHOUT    AND    WITHIN.  II 

My  hands  are  willing,  my  brain  is  clear, 

The  world  is  wide,  and  the  workers  few  ; 
But  the  work  of  the  world  belongs  to  man, 
There  is  nothing  for  woman  to  do ! 

Yes,  she  has  the  holy  duties  of  home, 

A  husband  to  love  and  children  to  bear ; 
The  softer  virtues,  the  social  arts,  — 
In  short,  a  life  without  care ! 

So  our  masters  say.     But  what  do  they  know 

Of  our  lives  and  feelings  when  they  are  away  ? 
Our  household  duties,  our  petty  tasks,  — 
The  nothings  that  waste  the  day  ? 

Nay,  what  do  they  care  ?     'T  is  enough  for  them 
That  their  homes  are  pleasant ;  they  seek  their 

ease: 

One  takes  a  wife  to  flatter  his  pride, 
Another,  to  keep  his  keys  ! 

They  say  they  love  us  ;  perhaps  they  do, 

In  a  masculine  way,  as  they  love  their  wine : 
But  the  soul  of  a  woman  needs  something  more, 
Or  it  suffers  at  times  like  mine 


12  WITHOUT  AND   WITHIN. 

Not  that  Arthur  is  ever  unkind 

In  word  or  deed,  for  he  loves  me  well ; 

But  I  fear  he  thinks  me  as  weak  as  the  rest ; 

(And  I  may  be,  who  can  tell  ?) 

I  should  die  if  he  changed,  or  loved  me  less, 

For  I  live  at  best  but  a  restless  life ; 

Yet  he  may,  for  they  say  the  kindest  men 

Grow  tired  of  a  sickly  wife. 

O,  love  me,  Arthur !  my  lord,  my  life, 

If  not  for  my  love,  and  my  womanly  fears, 
At  least  for  your  child.     But  I  hear  his  step, 
He  must  not  find  me  in  tears. 


AFTER   THE   FUNERAL. 


AFTER   THE   FUNERAL. 


"XT  EVER  any  more, 

-*•  ^    Till  my  broken  dream  of  life 

Is  swallowed  up  in  death, 

Shall  I  look  upon  my  wife. 
I  prayed  that  she  might  live, 

But  my  prayers  could  not  save ; 
For  here  I  am,  alone, 

And  she  is  in  the  grave ! 


It  seems  an  age  to  me 

Since  I  saw  the  coffin  there ; 
The  lid  was  off,  and  lo, 

A  face  within  the  square,  — 
A  pale  but  happy  face,  — 

Sweet  lips  without  a  breath  ; 
How  beautiful  if  Sleep, 

How  terrible  if  Death  ! 


14  AFTER   THE    FUNERAL. 

I  lifted  up  the  child, 

In  her  little  mourning  gown  ; 
But  she  turned  away  her  eyes 

Until  I  put  her  down. 
They  took  the  coffin  out 

In  the  blinding  light  of  day  ; 
The  black  hearse  moved  on, 

And  the  coaches  crept  away ! 

We  stood  around  the  grave 

While  the  hollow  prayers  were  said, 
And  the  heavy,  wet  earth 

Was  shovelled  on  the  dead ; 
As  it  struck  the  coffin-lid 

With  a  dull  and  dreadful  sound, 
It  seemed  to  strike  my  heart,  — 

They  led  me  from  the  ground. 

But  all  is  over  now, 

And  it  almost  soothes  my  pain 
To  think,  whatever  comes, 

She  cannot  die  again ! 


AFTER    THE    FUNERAL.  15 

The  blow  has  fallen,  —  I  know 
The  worst  that  death  can  give  : 

The  worst  of  life 's  to  come, 
For  I  must  learn  to  live ! 

tt 
What  must  I  do  to  live  ? 

I  will  play  my  part,  — 
Ply  my  subtle  brain, 

Forget  my  stricken  heart ; 
Go  again  on  'Change, 

Buy,  and  sell,  and  scheme  ; 
Fit  my  ships  for  sea, — 

Anything  but  dream ! 

I  know  the  day  will  pass, 

In  the  stir  and  light ; 
But  how  can  I  endure 

The  coming  home  at  night  ? 
No  watching  at  the  pane, 

No  meeting  at  the  door, 
No  loving,  wifely  kiss,  — 

No  Alice  any  more  ! 


1 6  ON   THE   TOWN. 


ON   THE   TOWN. 

'HHHE  lamps  are  lighted,  the  streets  are  full, 

-*-     For,  coming  and  going,  like  waves  of  the  sea, 
Thousands  are  out  this  beautiful  night ; 

They  jostle  each  other,  but  shrink  from  me. 
Men  hurry  by  with  a  stealthy  glance, 

Women  pass  with  their  eyes  cast  down ; 
Even  the  children  seem  to  know 

The  shameless  girl  of  the  town. 

Hated  and  shunned  I  walk  the  street, 

Hunting,  —  for  what  ?     For  my  prey,  't  is  said  ; 
I  look  at  it,  though,  in  a  different  light, 

For  this  nightly  shame  is  my  daily  bread :  — 
My  food,  my  shelter,  the  clothes  I  wear, 

Only  for  this  I  might  starve  or  drown  ; 
The  world  has  disowned  me,  —  what  can  I  do 

But  live  and  die  on  the  town  ? 


ON    THE    TOWN.  I? 

The  world  is  cruel.     It  may  be  right 

To  crush  the  harlot,  but,  grant  it  so, 
What  made  her  the  guilty  thing  she  is  ? 

For  she  was  innocent  once,  you  know. 
'T  was  love  !  —  that  terrible  word  tells  all ! 

She  loved  a  man  and  blindly  believed 
His  vows,  his  kisses,  his  crocodile  tears,  — 

Of  course  the  fool  was  deceived ! 

What  had  I  to  gain  by  a  moment's  sin, 

To  weigh  in  the  scale  with  my  innocent  years, 
My  womanly  shame,  my  ruined  name, 

My  father's  curses,  my  mother's  tears  ? 
The  love  of  a  man  !  —  It  was  something  to  give, 

Was  it  worth  it?     The  price  was  a  soul  paid 

down,  — 
Did  I  get  a  soul,  his  soul  in  exchange  ? 

Behold  me  here  on  the  town ! 

"Your  guilt  was  heavy,"  the  world  will  say, 
"And  heavy,  heavy  your  doom  must  be ; 

For  to  pity  and  pardon  woman's  fall 
Is  to  set  no  value  on  chastity. 


1 8  ON    THE   TOWN. 

You  undervalue  the  virgin's  crown, 

The  spotless  honor  that  makes  her  dear." 

But  I  ought  to  know  what  the  bauble  is  worth, 
When  the  loss  of  it  brings  me  here ! 

But  pity  and  pardon  ?     Who  are  you 

To  talk  of  pardon,  pity,  to  me  ? 
What  I  ask  is  justice,  justice,  sir, — 

Let  both  be  punished,  or  both  go  free. 
If  it  be  in  woman  a  dreadful  thing, 

What  is  it  in  man,  now  ?     Come,  be  just : 
(Remember,  she  falls  through  her  love  for  him, 

He,  through  his  selfish  lust !) 

Tell  me  what  is  done  to  the  wretch 

Who  tempts,  and  riots  in  woman's  fall  ? 
His  father  curses,  and  casts  him  off? 

His  friends  forsake  ?     He  is  scorned  of  all  ? 
Not  he:  his  judges  are  men  like  himself, 

Or  thoughtless  women,  who  humor  their  whim  : 
"'Young  blood,"    "Wild   oats,"    "Better  hush  it 
up": 

They  soon  forget  it  —  in  him  ! 


ON    THE   TOWN.  1 9 

Even  his  mother,  who  ought  to  know 

The  woman-nature,  and  how  it  is  won, 
Frames  a  thousand  excuses  for  him, 

Because,  forsooth,  the  man  is  her  son ! 
You  have  daughters,  madam,  (he  told  me  so,) 

Fair,  innocent  daughters,  —     "  Woman,  what 

then?" 
Some  mother  may  have  a  son  like  yours, 

Bid  them  beware  of  men  ! 

I  saw  his  coach  in  the  street  to-day, 

Dashing  along  on  the  sunny  side, 
With  a  liveried  driver  on  the  box  : 

Lolling  back  in  her  listless  pride, 
The  wife  of  his  bosom  took  the  air. 

She  was  bought  in  the  mart  where  hearts  are 

sold: 
I  gave  myself  away  for  his  love, 

She  sold  herself  for  his  gold  ! 

He  lives,  they  say,  in  a  princely  way, 
Flattered  and  feasted.  One  dark  night 

Some  devil  led  me  to  pass  his  housa : 
I  saw  the  windows  a  blaze  of  light ; 


2O  ON   THE   TOWN. 

The  music  whirled  in  a  maddening  round, 
I  heard  the  fall  of  the  dancers'  feet : 

Bitter,  bitter  the  thoughts  I  had, 
Standing  there  in  the  street ! 

Back  to  my  gaudy  den  I  went, 

Marched  to  my  room  in  grim  despair, 
Dried  my  eyes,  painted  my  cheeks, 

And  fixed  a  flower  or  two  in  my  hair. 
Corks  were  popping,  wine  was  flowing, 

I  seized  a  bumper,  and  tossed  it  down : 
One  must  do  something  to  kill  the  time, 

And  fit  one's  self  for  the  town  ! 

I  meet  his  boy  in  the  park  sometimes, 

And  my  heart  runs  over  towards  the  child ; 
A  frank  little  fellow  with  fearless  eyes, 

He  smiles  at  me  as  his  father  smiled ! 
I  hate  the  man,  but  I  love  the  boy, 

For  I  think  what  my  own,  had  he  lived,  would 

be: 
Perhaps  it  is  Tie,  come  back  from  the  dead,  — 

To  his  father,  alas !  not  me. 


ON   THE   TOWN.  21 

But  I  stand  too  long  in  the  shadow  here, 

Let  me  out  in  the  light  again. 
Now  for  insult,  blows,  perhaps, 

And,  bitterer  still,  my  own  disdain. 
I  take  my  place  in  the  crowded  street, 

Not  like  the  simple  women  I  see :  — 
You  may  cheat  them,  men,  as  much  as  you  please, 

You  wear  no  masks  with  me ! 


I  know  ye  !     Under  your  honeyed  words 

There  lurks  a  serpent ;  your  oaths* are  lies  ; 
There  's  a  lustful  fire  in  your  hungry  hearts, 

I  see  it  flaming  up  in  your  eyes  ! 
Cling  to  them,  ladies,  and  shrink  from  me, 

Or  rail  at  my  boldness.     Well,  have  you  done  ? 
Madam,  your  husband  knows  me  well ; 

Mother,  I  know  your  son  ! 

• 
But  go  your  ways,  and  I  '11  go  mine ; 

Call  me  opprobrious  names  if  you  will ; 
The  truth  is  bitter,  think  I  have  lied : 

"A  harlot  ? "     Yes  !  but  a  woman  still ! 


22  ON    THE    TOWN. 

God  said  of  old  to  a  woman  like  me, 
"  Go,  sin  no  more,"  or  your  Bibles  lie ; 

But  you,  you  mangle  his  merciful  words 
To  "  Go,  and  sin  till  you  die ! " 

Die  !  —  the  word  has  a  pleasant  sound, 

The  sweetest  I  Ve  heard  this  many  a  year. 
It  seems  to  promise  an  end  to  pain  ; 

Anyway  it  will  end  it  here ! 
Suppose  I  throw  myself  in  the  street  ? 

Before  the  horses  could  trample  me  down, 
Some  would-be  friend  might  snatch  me  up, 

And  thrust  me  back  on  the  town ! 

But  look,  —  the  river !     From  where  I  stand 

I  see  it,  I  almost  hear  it  flow. 
Down  on  the  dark  and  lonely  pier  — 

It  is  but  a  step  —  I  can  end  my  woe  ! 
A  plunge,  a  splash,  and  all  will  be  o'er, 

The  death-black  waters  will  drag  me  down ; 
God  knows  where  !    But  no  matter  where, 

So  I  am  off  the  town ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.     23 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

T  T  was  a  night  in  winter, 
-*•      Some  seventy  years  ago  ; 
The  bleak  and  barren  landscape 
Was  blurred  with  driving  snow. 

You  caught  a  glimpse  of  uplands, 
And  guessed  where  valleys  lay  ; 

The  trees  were  broken  shadows, 
A  house  was  something  gray. 

Only  the  western  forests 

Stood  sharply,  black  and  bare  ; 

For  there  the  blood-red  sunset 
Still  shot  a  sullen  glare. 

In  an  old  New  England  farm-house, 

That  snowy  winter  night, 
In  the  spacious  chimney  corner, 

Where  the  logs  were  blazing  bright, 


24      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

An  aged  man  was  sitting 
In  the  cheery  light  and  heat, 

With  his  head  upon  his  bosom, 
And  the  watch-dog  at  his  feet. 

Beside  him  sat  his  grandson, 
In  a  high-backed  oaken  chair, 

And  the  glow  of  ten  sweet  summers 
Was  golden  in  his  hair. 

The  man  was  Nathan  Baldwin, 
And  many  a  tale  is  told 

Of  how  he  marched,  and  suffered 
With  hunger,  and  with  cold. 

Of  brave  old  Gran'ther  Baldwin 
Shall  be  the  song  I  sing, 

Who  fought  for  Independence 

When  George  the  Third  was  king. 

Before  him  hung  two  muskets, 
With  clumsy,  dinted  stocks ; 

The  bayonets  were  mounted, 
The  flints  were  in  the  locks,  — 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

Two  rusty  Queen  Anne's  muskets, 
Whose  pans  were  smoky  still,  — 

The  spoil  of  British  soldiers 
Who  charged  at  Bunker  Hill. 

They  fell  by  'Nathan's  rifle  ; 

He  snatched  their  dropping  guns, 
And  sent  them  to  the  farm-house 

To  arm  his  stalwart  sons. 

They  hung  against  the  chimney 
That  windy  winter  night, 

Unseen  by  Nathan  Baldwin, 
Who  saw  another  sight. 

He  sat  there  in  his  settle 

Before  the  dancing  flame, 
And  on  the  wall  behind  him 

His  shadow  went  and  came. 

He  dozed  behind  his  grandson, 
Whose  thoughts  were  on  the  snow, 

While  his  eyes  were  on  the  muskets, 
And  the  powder-horns  below. 


26      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"Tell  me  a  story/  Gran'ther," 

The  little  dreamer  said  ; 
But  Nathan  did  not  answer, 

Though  he  smoothed  his  curly  head. 

He  heard  the  shrill  winds  whistle, 

He  saw  the  embers  glow, 
And,  dropping  down  the  chimney, 

The  ragged  flakes  of  snow. 

I* 
The  sap  in  the  back-log  spluttered, 

And  through  the  puffs  of  smoke, 
Like  a  sharp  discharge  of  rifles, 

A  crackling  volley  broke. 

"  Tell  me  a  story,  Gran'ther ; 

Not  that  of  Riding-Hood, 
Nor  how  the  robins  buried 

The  children  in  the  wood  ; 

"  But  how  you  fought  the  Indians, 

So  many  years  ago  ; 
Or  Valley  Forge  in  winter, 

And  all  about  the  snow." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"  In  the  fall  of  seventy-seven 

(My  little  Abner,  hear), 
In  the  middle  of  November 

Of  that  unhappy  year, 

"  I  marched  with  Morgan's  Rifles, 

A  corps  of  gallant  men, 
To  join  our  wretched  army 

In  the  Quaker  State  of  Penn. 

"By  forced  and  rapid  marches 
(We  took  the  shortest  way, 

A  crow-flight  through  the  Jerseys, 
And  added  night  to  day),  — 

"By  long  and  weary  marches 
We  crossed  the  dreary  plain  : 

The  winds  were  wild  with  winter, 
And  the  sky  was  dark  with  rain. 

"  There  was  no  sun  in  the  daytime, 
At  night  there  was  no  moon : 

So  Morgan  told  the  fifer 
To  blow  a  merry  tune. 


28      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"  Our  poor  old  regimentals 

Were  more  like  rags  than  clothes ; 

Just  fit  to  flap  in  cornfields 
And  scare  away  the  crows. 

"You  knew  our  halting-places 
By  the  tatters  lying  round  ; 

When  we  came  in  sight  of  White  Marsh, 
Our  feet  were  on  the  ground. 

"We  scarcely  saw  the  army, 
That  cheered  as  we  drew  nigh ; 

But  we  marched  with  flying  colors, 
And  our  powder,  boy,  was  dry  ! 

"  One  morning  in  December 

The  British  came  in  sight. 
Said  Morgan,  '  Load  your  rifles, 

For  here 's  a  chance  to  fight.' 

"  Six  hundred  stout  militia, 

With  Irvine  at  their  head, 
Sneaked  out  to  take  a  volley,  — 

Of  course  the  cowards  fled  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      2Q 

"  Howe  changed  his  ground  at  midnight, 

For  at  the  break  of  day 
We  saw  that  he  was  nearer, 

Though  still  a  mile  away. 

"All  day  he  lay  and  watched  us, 

But  changed  again  at  night. 
When  morning  came  (t  was  Sunday) 

We  saw  he  meant  to  fight. 

"'Be  ready,  boys/  said  Morgan, 

'And  let  your  aim  be  true.' 
At  noon  the  word  was,  'Forward!' 

And  then  the  bullets  flew  !  " 

"I  guess,"  said  Abner,  warming, 
''You  showed  'em  how  to  fight." 

"At  dusk  they  lighted  watch-fires, 
And  vanished  in  the  night. 

"The  General  called  a  council 

To  meet  him  in  his  tent, 
And  choose  our  winter  quarters, 

And  all  the  generals  went. 


30      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"  They  sat  with  maps  before  them, 
And  knit  their  brows  awhile ; 

Some  thought  of  York  and  Reading, 
And  others  of  Carlisle. 

"But  Washington  decided, 
When  all  had  spoken  round, 

That  Valley  Forge,  in  Chester, 
Should  be  our  winter  ground. 

"We  heard  the  news  at  supper, 
And  said  't  was  time  to  go, 

For  winter  was  upon  us, 

And  the  sky  was  full  of  snow. 

"So  when  the  dead  were  buried, — 
Some  ninety  men  in  all,  — 

We  took  the  road  to  Chester, 
As  the  snows  began  to  fall. 

"  It  was  a  sight  to  see  us, 

That  dreary  winter  day, 
As  we  broke  up  our  encampment, 

And  stretched  for  miles  away. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      31 

"  The  files  that  came  and  vanished  ; 

The  banners  on  the  wind  ; 
The  gallant  van  of  light-horse  ; 

The  rifles  close  behind  ;  — 

"  Then  Poor's  brigade,  and  Glover's  ; 

The  heavy  guns  of  Knox  ; 
The  train  of  baggage-wagons, 

And  the  teamsters  in  their  frocks  ;  — 

"  Climbing  the  whitened  hill-tops, 

And  swarming  on  the  plain  ; 
And  Washington  on  horseback, 

With  Harry  Lee  and  Wayne. 

"We  crossed  a  wasted  country, 

With  a  farm-house  here  and  there  : 

No  smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys 
Went  curling  up  the  air. 

"  No  face  at  door  or  window 

Looked  out  as  we  passed  by  ; 
But  through  the  battered  sashes 

We  saw  the  blank  of  sky. 


32      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"We  pushed  ahead  till  nightfall 
Closed  round  our  straggling  lines, 

Then  halted  in  the  shelter 
Of  a  ragged  belt  of  pines. 

"We  lighted  fires  of  brushwood, 
And  stacked  our  muskets  round  ; 

The  teamsters  lent  us  fodder, 
And  we  spread  it  on  the  ground. 

"T  was  bitter,  bitter,  Abner, 
On  the  frozen  ground  to  lie, 

No  pillow  but  a  knapsack, 
No  blanket  but  the  sky ! 

"We  took  the  road  at  daybreak, 
In  the  blinding  snow  and  wind  ; 

The  wounded  went  in  wagons, — 
We  left  the  dead  behind. 

"The  fifers  screamed  their  loudest, 
But  the  winds  alone  were  heard  ; 

The  drums  in  snow  were  muffled, 
And  no  man  spake  a  word. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      33 

"We  marched  in  gloomy  silence, — 

A  sort  of  grim  despair, 
That  nerved  the  weak  to  suffer, 

And  fired  the  strong  to  dare. 

"You  might  have  tracked  us,  Abner, 

By  the  trail  of  blood  we  shed  ; 
We  bled  at  every  footstep,  — 

The  snow  for  miles  was  red  ! " 

"O  Gran'ther!"  Abner  whispered, 

But  Gran'ther  did  not  speak  ;  * 

For  the  tears  of  eighty  winters 
Were  trickling  down  his  cheek. 

The  tender  child  was  troubled, 

He  knew  not  what  to  say ; 
So  he  clambered  up  and  kissed  him, 

And  wiped  the  tears  away. 

"  On  the  seventeenth  of  December 

(The  day  was  still  and  bright) 
We  crossed  the  swollen  Schuylkill, 

With  Valley  Forge  in  sight. 
3 


34      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"We  saw  the  smoke  of  the  forges, 

We  heard  the  anvils  ring  ; 
You  should  have  seen  us,  Abner, 

And  heard  us  shout  and  sing. 

"  We  pitched  our  tents  by  the  river, 

In  a  row  along  the  street, 
Built  fires,  and  cooked  our  dinners, 

And  dressed  our  bleeding  feet. 

"  Some  sat  apart  with  their  muskets, 
I         Rubbing  the  rusty  stains  ; 

The  teamsters  stood  by  their  horses, 

And  combed  the  snow  from  their  manes. 

"  One  chopped  a  stack  of  brushwood, 

Another  blew  a  brand  ; 
I  fell  asleep  at  dinner, 

With  my  ration  in  my  hand. 

"  The  next  day  was  Thanksgiving, 
And  the  valley  bells  were  rung  ; 

The  farmers  drove  to  meeting, 
And  a  goodly  psalm  was  sung. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      35 

"  The  drummers  beat  the  roll-call, 

We  gathered  in  the  air ; 
The  chaplain  preached  a  sermon, 

And  made  a  touching  prayer. 

"  Next  morning  we  were  stirring 

As  the  cocks  began  to  crow, 
With  our  shovels  on  our  shoulders, 

To  clear  away  the  snow. 

"You  know  what  snow  is,  Abner; 

You  Ve  seen  the  farmers  near 
Clearing  a  path  to  their  barn-yards,  — 

But  we  had  miles  to  clear. 

"  It  was  a  dreary  prospect, 

For  the  winds  were  sharp  and  cold, 
And  we  were  nearly  naked, 

And  some,  alas,  were  old  ! 

"The  General  planned  our  village  ; 

The  streets  were  east  and  west. 
We  dug  the  snow  in  trenches, 

A  dozen  men  abreast. 


36      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"By  night  the  white  embankments 
Were  piled  above  our  heads. 

The  roads  were  black  with  soldiers, 
And  blocked  with  carts  and  sleds  ;  — 

"  With  ox-carts  of  provisions, 
With  sleds  of  wood  and  hay, 

And  officers  on  horseback 
That  slowly  cleared  the  way. 

"And  in  the  windy  forest, 

Whose  moan  was  like  the  sea's, 

We  heard  the  stroke  of  axes 
And  the  crash  of  falling  trees  ; 

"The  lowing  of  the  oxen, 

That  hauled  the  timber  down  ; 

The  noise  of  saws  and  hammers, 
And  the  forges  in  the  town. 

"  Our  huts  were  built  by  Christmas,  — 
Rough  logs,  a  slab  the  door ; 

The  cracks  with  clay  were  plastered ; 
The  frozen  ground  the  floor. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"All  through  the  happy  valley 
The  Christmas  cheer  was  spread  ; 

The  farmers  ate  their  turkeys, 
And  we  our  mouldy  bread. 

"Well,  there  we  were  all  winter, 
Ten  thousand  men,  or  more. 

Ah  !  how  can  I  remember, 
Or  speak  of  what  we  bore  ! 

"The  stupor  that  benumbed  us  ; 

The  pains  that  drove  us  wild ; 
The  hunger,  and  the  sickness  ; 

The  —  all  but  death,  my  child  ! 

"We  huddled  in  our  barracks 
For  days  and  days  together, 

Too  weak  to  stand,  too  naked 
To  brave  the  bitter  weather. 

"  We  made  us  shoes  of  raw  hide, 
That  stung  our  tender  feet ; 

We  limped  about  on  crutches, 
We  stumbled  in  the  street. 


38      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"  I  had  a  burning  fever  ; 

I  had  a  freezing  chill ; 
I  dreamed  of  killing  Indians ; 

I  dreamed  of  Bunker  Hill. 

"  The  General  came  to  see  me 
(They  told  me  when  I  rose), 

And  your  father  sat  and  watched  me, 
And  patched  my  tattered  clothes. 

"  One  night,  when  I  was  better, 
The  guard  was  ordered  out 

In  front  of  Varnum's  quarters, 
Before  the  Star  redoubt. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  them  call  me 

(It  was  my  turn  to  go), 
So  I  snatched  a  hat  and  musket, 

And  hobbled  through  the  snow ; 

"Along  the  grim  abatis, 

That  faced  the  windy  street, 

To  where  the  gloomy  forest 
And  swollen  river  meet ; 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      39 

(c  Along  the  roaring  river, 

Beyond  the  narrow  ford, 
Till  near  the  outer  picket,  — 

When  all  at  once  I  heard 

"  The  General's  voice.     I  hearkened, 
And  through  the  darkness  broke 

His  tall,  commanding  figure, 
Wrapt  in  a  martial  cloak. 

" '  Good  evening,  Nathan  Baldwin  ; 

I  'm  glad  to  see  you  out.' 
'  It  is  my  night  on  guard,  sir, 

Before  the  Star  redoubt.' 

"And  he  :  'Did  Morgan  send  you  ? 

The  snow  is  drifted  there.' 
I  felt  he  saw  my  tatters, 

And  pitied  my  gray  hair. 

"Til  do  my  duty,  General.'" 

"What  did  the  General  say?" 
"He  threw  his  cloak  about  me, 

And  slowly  walked  away. 


4O      THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

"  'God  bless  you,  sir  ! '  I  shouted  ; 

And,  as  I  strode  along, 
I  laughed  and  cried  together, 

And  hummed  a  battle-song. 

"  I  felt  my  way  before  me,  — 

It  was  too  dark  to  see ; 
I  floundered  in  a  snow-drift, 

I  ran  against  a  tree. 

"The  March  winds,  sharp  and  cruel, 
Their  stormy  trumpets  blew  ; 

Came  charging  down  the  hillsides, 

And  stabbed  me  through  and  through. 

"I  heard  the  drums  in  the  distance ; 

I  heard  the  river  roar ; 
I  heard  the  wolves  in  the  forests  ; 

I  heard  —  I  heard  no  more. 

"I  woke  in  your  father's  barrack, 

I  was  lying  in  his  bed  ; 
He  stood  beside  me  crying, 

Because  he  thought  me  dead. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      41 

"But  hark  !  I  hear  him  coming, 
And  mother  's  drawing  the  tea  ; 

His  step  is  on  the  scraper,  — 
Run  to  the  door,  and  see." 

The  outside  latch  was  lifted, 

A  draught  blew  in  the  room  ; 
They  heard  him  calling,  "  Mother," 

And,  "Abner,  fetch  a  broom." 

He  stamped  his  feet  in  the  entry, 
And  brushed  his  homespun  clothes. 

"Well,  boys."     "Good  evening,  Reuben. 
What  news  to-ni^ht  ? "     "  It  snows  ! " 


o 


The  dog  barked  ;  Abner  tittered, 
But  Gran'ther  shook  his  head. 

Now  mother  brought  the  candles, 
And  the  table  soon  was  spread : 

With  the  dishes  on  the  dresser, 
The  loaf  of  wheat  and  rye, 

The  baked  beans  from  the  oven, 
And  a  royal  pumpkin-pie. 


42  THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER. 

"  Draw  up  :  we  're  ready,  Reuben." 
"But  where  did  Abner  go  ? " 

With  Gran'ther's  crutch  for  a  musket, 
He  was  marching  sad  and  slow ; 

Freezing  in  thought  at  midnight, 
At  Valley.  Forge  in  the  snow ! 


THE   LITTLE   DRUMMER. 

"HP  IS  of  a  little  drummer 

-*•     The  story  I  shall  tell, 
Of  how  he  marched  to  battle, 

And  all  that  there  befell ; 
Out  in  the  West  with  Lyon 

(For  once  that  name  was  true), 
For  whom  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 

Our  army  rose  at  midnight, 
Ten  thousand  men  as  one, 

Each  slinging  on  his  knapsack 
And  snatching  up  his  gun  ; 


THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER.  43 

"Forward!"  and  off  they  started  ; 

As  all  good  soldiers  do, 
When  the  little  drummer  beats  for  them 

The  rat-tat-too. 


Across  a  rolling  country, 

Where  the  mist  began  to  rise  ; 
Past  many  a  blackened  farm-house, 

Till  the  sun  was  in  the  skies  ; 
Then  we  met  the  rebel  pickets, 

Who  skirmished  and  withdrew, 
While  the  little  drummer  beat  and  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 

Along  the  wooded  hollows 

The  line  of  battle  ran. 
Our  centre  poured  a  volley, 

And  the  fight  at  once  began  ; 
For  the  rebels  answered,  shouting, 

And  a  shower  of  bullets  flew  ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


44  THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER. 

He  stood  among  his  comrades, 

As  they  quickly  formed  the  line, 
And  when  they  raised  their  muskets 

He  watched  the  barrels  shine. 
When  the  volley  broke,  he  started, 

For  war  to  him  was  new  ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


It  was  a  sight  to  see  them, 

That  early  autumn  day,  — 
Our  soldiers  in  their  blue  coats, 

And  the  rebel  ranks  in  gray  ; 
The  smoke  that  rolled  between  them, 

The  balls  that  whistled  through, 
And  the  little  drummer  as  he  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


His  comrades  dropped  around  him,  — 
By  fives  and  tens  they  fell ; 

Some  pierced  by  Minie  Bullets, 
Some  torn  by  shot  and  shell. 


THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER.  4$ 

They  played  against  our  cannon, 

And  a  caisson's  splinters  flew ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 


The  right,  the  left,  the  centre,  — 

The  fight  was  everywhere  ; 
They  pushed  us  here,  —  we  wavered  ; 

We  drove  and  broke  them  there. 
The  gray-backs  fixed  their  bayonets 

And  charged  the  coats  of  blue, 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat- tat-too. 

"Where  is  our  little  drummer  ?  " 

His  nearest  comrades  say, 
When  the  dreadful  fight  is  over, 

And  the  smoke  is  cleared  away. 
As  the  rebel  corps  was  scattering 

He  urged  them  to  pursue,  — 
So  furiously  he  beat  and  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 


46  THE    LITTLE    DRUMMER. 

He  stood  no  more  among  them  ; 

A  bullet,  as  it  sped, 
Had  glanced  and  struck  his  ankle, 

And  stretched  him  with  the  dead. 
He  crawled  behind  a  cannon, 

And  pale  and  paler  grew  ; 
But  still  the  little  drummer  beat 

His  rat- tat-too. 


They  bore  him  to  the  surgeon, 

A  busy  man  was  he. 
"  A  drummer-boy,  what  ails  him  ? " 

His  comrades  answered,  "  See  !  " 
As  they  took  him  from  the  stretcher 

A  heavy  breath  he  drew, 
And  his  little  fingers  strove  to  beat 

The  rat-tat-too. 

The  ball  had  spent  its  fury  ; 

"A  scratch,"  the  surgeon  said, 
As  he  wound  the  snowy  bandage 

\Vhich  the  lint  was  staining  red  ! 


THE   LITTLE    DRUM::  4J 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,  old  fellow  ! " 

"  O,  take  me  back  with  you, 
For  I  know  the  men  are  missing  me, 

And  the  rat-tat-toe . 

Upon  his  comrade's  shoulder 

They  lifted  him  so  grand, 
With  his  dusty  drum  before  him 

And  his  drum-sticks  in  his  hand ! 
To  the  fiery  front  of  battle, 

That  nearer,  nearer  drew, 
And  evermore  he  beat  and  beat 

His  rat-tat-too. 

The  wounded,  as  he  passed  them, 

Looked  up  and  gave  a  cheer ; 
And  one  in  dying  blessed  him, 

Between  a  smile  and  tear ! 
And  the  gray-backs  —  they  are  flying 

Before  the  coats  of  blue, 
F:r  whom  the  little  drummer  be. 

His  rat-tat-too. 


48  WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW. 

When  the  west  was  red  withvsunset, 

The  last  pursuit  was  o'er ; 
Brave  Lyon  rode  the  foremost, 

And  looked  the  name  he  bore ! 
And  before  him,  on  his  saddle, 

As  a  weary  child  would  do, 
Sat  the  little  drummer  fast  asleep, 

With  his  rat-tat-too. 


WHEN   THIS    OLD    FLAG  WAS   NEW. 

WHEN  this  old  flag  was  new, 
The  manners  and  the  men 
That  are  so  petty  now, 

Methinks,  were  better  then. 
The  straits  that  we  were  in, 

The  work  there  was  to  do, 
All  hearts  and  hands  made  strong, 
When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


WHEN   THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW.  49 

Five  long,  long  years  we  fought 

Against  the  British  Crown  ; 
For  George  the  Third  would  put 

His  rebel  subjects  down. 
Many  were  our  defeats, 

Our  victories  were  few, 
And  yet  we  lost  not  hope, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

Its  hour  of  triumph  came. 

'T  was  ninety  years  ago, 
When  out  of  Yorktown  marched, 

With  solemn  step  and  slow, 
The  beaten  English  host, 

That  cursed,  yet  dreaded,  too, 
The  sight  they  saw  that  day, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

Along  the  dusty  road, 

Drawn  up  in  bright  array, 
They  saw  the  gallant  French, 

Whose  bands  began  to  play  ; 
4    - 


5<D  WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW. 

They  saw  the  Yankee  troops, 

A  ragged,  motley  crew, 
Vho  looked  the  men  they  were 
When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


Through  these,  with  shouldered  arms 

And  colors  cased,  they  went ; 
Low  beat  their  drums  the  while, 

But  loud  their  discontent ; 
Sullenly  on  the  ground 

Their  captured  guns  they  threw, 
Thinking  of  England's  flag, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

The  long  war  left  us  poor, 

But  left  us  strong  and  free, 
What  we  determined  best 

Thenceforth  to  do  and  be  ; 
To  mould  the  State  at  will, 

Make  laws,  and  break  them  too, 
master  but  ourselves, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW.  5  I 

A  brave  old  race  they  were 

Who  peopled  then  the  land, 
No  man  of  them  ashamed 

To  show  his  horny  hand  ; 
Hands  that  had  grasped  the  sword 

Now  drew  the  furrow  true  ; 
For  honored  was  the  plough 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

The  farmer  tilled  the  ground 

His  father  tilled  before  ; 
If  it  supplied  his  wants, 

He  asked  for  nothing  more. 
Thankful  for  what  he  had, 

On  Sunday,  in  his  pew, 
He  sang  a  hymn  of  praise, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


He  wore  a  homespun  suit 

His  wife  and  daughters  made ; 

'T  was  dyed  with  butternuts, 
And,  likely,  old  and  frayed  ; 


52  WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS   NEW. 

They  dressed  in  calicoes, 

And  looked  right  pretty,  too  ; 

Women,  not  clothes,  were  loved 
When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


Men  married  women  then, 

Who  kept  their  healthful  bloom 
By  working  at  the  churn 

And  at  the  wheel  and  loom  ; 
Who  could  their  stockings  knit, 

And  darn,  and  bake,  and  brew ; 
A  housewife  in  each  house, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

And  women  married  men 

Who  did  not  shrink  from  toil, 
But  wrung  with  sweat  their  bread 

From  out  the  stubborn  soil ; 
Whose  axes  felled  the  wood, 

And  where  so  late  it  grew 
Did  straightway  build  their  homes, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW.  53 

The  school-house  and  the  church 

Were  raised  the  selfsame  day  ; 
For  who  would  learn  to  read 

Should  learn,  they  thought,  to  pray. 
They  read  the  Bible  then, 

And  all  believed  it  true ; 
For  they  were  simple  folk, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

They  lived  their  homely  lives 

The  plain,  old-fashioned  way ; 
Thanksgiving  once  a  year, 

And  general  Muster-day ; 
Town  meeting  in  the  spring,  — 

Their  holidays  were  few 
And  very  gravely  kept, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

A  hardy,  patient  race, 

Their  growth  was  sure,  if  slow  ; 
Happy  in  this,  they  had 

A  world  wherein  to  grow, 


54  WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW. 

Where  kings  and  priests  were  not, 
Nor  peoples  to  subdue ; 

A  Continent  their  own, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


From  where  their  hearth-fires  burned, 

And  where  their  dead  were  laid, 
Through  woods  till  then  untrod, 

That  slept  in  endless  shade, 
Up  mighty  streams  and  lakes, 

By  many  a  still  bayou, 
North,  south,  they  drove  their  way, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

The  forests  of  the  North, 

Dense,  dark  with  pines,  knew  well 
Beneath  whose  sturdy  blows 

Their  grand  old  monarchs  fell ; 
Before  whose  deadly  shots 

The  wild  deer,  crashing,  flew, 
And  the  great,  frightened  moose, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW.  55 

The  swollen  floods  of  March 

Brought  down,  with  thundering  spray, 
Great  logs,  that  choked  the  streams, 

From  clearings  far  away  ; 
Day  after  day  long  rafts, 

Each  with  its  stalwart  crew, 
Like  islands  came  and  went, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


And  all  along  their  way 

Huge  saw-mills  drew  them  in, 
With  grating  iron  teeth 

That  made  a  ceaseless  din ; 
And  keels  were  laid,  which  soon 

To  goodly  vessels  grew  ; 
The  Forest  sought  the  Sea 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

Southward,  with  steady  sails, 
Along  our  rugged  shore, 

Around  the  dangerous  capes 
Where  stormy  billows  roar ; 


56  WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS   NEW. 

Beyond  the  coral  reefs, 
To  waters  calm  and  blue, 

Where  shone  no  flag  so  proud, 
When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


Among  the  summer  isles 

That  stud  the  Spanish  Main, 
Where  bloom  the  orange-groves, 

And  grows  the  sugar-cane, 
Where  Santa  Cruz  is  made, 

And  other  spirits,  too,  — 
The  rum  our  fathers  drank, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

And  northward  to  the  Banks, 

Where  through  the  mists  they  drift, 
And  thin  the  schools  of  cod  ; 

And  where  the  icebergs  lift 
Their  glittering,  dreadful  peaks, 

The  polar  whale  pursue  : 
No  sailors  were  so  bold 

When  this  old  flag:  was  new. 


WHEN   THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS   NEW.  S7 

And  westward  evermore, 

As  if  they  fled  the  sea, 
Whose  waves  their  brothers  ploughed, 

Whose  islands  held  in  fee 
The  farmers  of  the  North, 

Whose  harvests  scantier  grew, 
Went  pushing  through  the  woods, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

Beside  the  slow  ox-carts, 

Which  held  their  household  stuff, 
Whereon  the  children  sat 

When  the  long  roads  were  rough, 
With  muskets  in  their  hands, 

And  pluck  to  use  them,  too, 
They  plodded  on  and  on, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


Some  broad,  bright  river's  bank 
Became  their  dwelling-place ; 

They  built  a  house  of  logs, 

And  cleared  the  woods  apace  ; 


58  WHEN    THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW. 

Planted  a  patch  with  corn, 
Which  soon  the  sun  and  dew 

Matured  in  plenteous  crops, 
When  this  old  flag  was  new. 


And  westward,  westward  still, 

They  pushed  the  forests  back  ; 
And  where  they  went  the  flag 

Did  follow  on  their  track ; 
For  only  where  it  waved, 

When  near  the  Indian  drew, 
Was  man  or  woman  safe, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new. 

Its  stripes  of  rising  day, 

Its  clustering  stars  of  night,  — 
They  saw  them  burn  afar, 

And  blessed  their  growing  light  ; 
For  lo  !  as  years  went  by, 

Within  its  sky  of  blue 
Star  after  star  arose, 

When  this  old  flag  was  new ! 


WHEN   THIS    OLD    FLAG   WAS    NEW.  59 

Hail  to  the  brave  old  flag ! 

Wherever  it  has  flown 
The  State  has  gone  before 

And  made  its  greatness  known  ; 
It  found  us^torn  with  war, 

It  found  us  weak  and  few,  — 
We  even  had  a  king 

When  this  old  flag  was  new  ! 

God  bless  the  dear  old  flag ! 

The  nation's  hope  and  pride, 
For  which  our  fathers  fought, 

For  which  our  children  died  ; 
And,  long  as  there  shall  beat 

A  heart  to  freedom  true, 
Preserve  the  rights  we  won 

When  this  old  flag  was  new ! 


60  A   NEW   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 


A   NEW   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

i. 

I  WALKED  the  streets  on  Christmas  eve, 
Between  the  darkness  and  the  light ; 
It  was  a  dull  and  lonesome  night, 
The  very  houses  seemed  to  grieve  ! 

"  Two  thousand  years  ago,"  I  said, 
"  A  Child  was  born  at  dead  of  night  ; 
No  monarch  saw  the  beauteous  sight, 

The  Child  was  born  where  beasts  were  fed. 

"  No  purple  robe  inwrapped  his  limbs, 
He  was  but  lapped  in  swaddling-bands  ; 
No  trump  was  blown  about  the  lands, 

Only  the  angels  sang  their  hymns. 

"  A  single  star,  a  torch  of  light, 
Guided  the  wise  men  to  the  spot ; 
Few  saw  the  light,  and  soon  forgot 

The  wandering  meteor  of  the  night. 


A   NEW    CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  6 1 

"  This  little  Child,  so  meanly  born, 

Was  Prince,  was  King,  was  King  of  kings, 
The  Lord  of  all  created  things, 

Who  came  to  men,  a  man  forlorn ! 

"  *  Good-will  on  earth,  and  peace  to  men/ 
His  angels  sung :  he  taught  the  same. 
'  Good-will  and  peace/  —  what  better  claim 

To  be  a  God  was  needed  then  ? 

" '  Good-will  and  peace  ! '  the  godlike  words 
Are  now  the  jargon  of  the  day  : 
We  mouth  them  when  we  preach  and  pray, 

And  when  we  whet  our  battle  swords  1 " 

n. 

My  thoughts  grew  sad,  and  bitter  too  ; 
For  while  I  walked  the  dreary  town 
The  deepening  night  came  darker  down, 

The  moon  was  hid,  and  stars  were  few. 

The  cold  winds  blew,  and  round  and  round 
The  sear  leaves  eddied  ;  trees  were  bare  ; 
And  men  moved  slowly  here  and  there, 

Trailing  their  shadows  on  the  ground. 


62  A    NEW    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

"Behold  !"  I  sneered,  "the  world  without, 
An  emblem  of  the  world  within : 
The  darkness  is  the  night  of  sin, 

And  we  the  fools  who  grope  about. 

"  How  royally  we  keep  his  birth, 

Who  came  to-night  to  save  mankind  ! 
Without,  dead  leaves  and  frosty  wind ; 

Within,  the  cold,  unlighted  hearth. 

"  It  was  not  thus  in  days  of  yore ; 
In  brave  and  merry  England's  prime, 
Our  fathers  kept  the  Christmas  time, 

The  merry  Yule  that  is  no  more. 

"  The  walls  of  hall  and  hut  were  hung 
With  ivy  and  with  holly  boughs ; 
And  minstrels  went  from  house  to  house, 

And  all  night  long  their  carols  sung. 

"The  jolly  dancers  shook  the  floor 

With  country  reels,  which  fiddlers  played, 
And  many  a  little  man  and  maid 

At  blind-man's-buff  and  battledoor. 


A   NEW   CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  63 

"  Peopled  the  corners  with  delight ; 
The  old  folks  sat  at  fox-and-goose, 
And  let  their  tongues  and  fancies  loose 

In  tales  of  lords  and  ladies  bright. 

"  And  then  the  World  of  solid  cheer 
•  In  meats  and  drinks,  for  rich  and  poor  ;  — 

The  meanest  kept  an  open  door, 
For  Christmas  came  but  once  a  year. 

"  Turkeys  and  capons  roasted  brown, 
Dishes  of  brawn,  boar's  heads,  and,  chief, 
The  never-failing  loin  of  beef, 

With  jugs  of  ale  to  wash  it  clown. 

"  They  feast  until  the  tapers  shine, 
And  day  is  dead,  and  curfews  toll  ; 
At  last  they  take  the  wassail-bowl, 

And  drain  the  spiced  and  sugared  wine ! 

"  The  merry  Christmas  days  are  past, 

The  antique  plenty  is  no  more ; 

We  feast  alone,  we  bar  the  door, 
We  make  our  blinds  and  windows  fast. 


64  A   NEW    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

"  This  very  night,  when  Christ  was  born, 
And  when,  if  ever,  men  should  be 
Touched  with  the  sweetest  sympathy 

For  all  the  needy  and  forlorn, 

"  The  streets  are  full  of  want  and  woe, 
Of  hollow  cheeks  and  haggard  eyes  ; 
Even  now,  perchance,  some  beggar  dies 

Of  famine,  in  the  falling  snow ! " 

in. 
The  stars  were  gone,  the  sky  was  low, 

The  roof  of  night  had  settled  down  ; 

It  crushed  the  melancholy  town 
Until  it  crumbled  into  snow. 

I  drew  my  cloak  about  my  breast, 
And  plodded  on,  I  knew  not  where, 
In  sickly  sorrow  and  despair, 

Breathing  a  silent  prayer  for  rest. 

I  thought  of  all  my  bygone  years, 

Of  what  I  was,  and  might  have  been  ; 
The  calm  without,  the  strife  within 

Until  my  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 


A   NEW    CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  65 

"  'T  is  not  for  me,"  I  said,  "  to  sneer 

At  others  for  the  sins  I  see ; 

My  own  should  hush  and  humble  me, — 
Behold  !  the  sinner,  Lord,  is  here ! 

"I  have  no  mission  to  mankind  ; 
It  tasks  the  wisest  and  the  best 
To  rule  the  world  within  his  breast, 

The  wayward  heart,  the  wandering  mind. 

"  God  rules  the  world,  and  moulds  at  will 
Its  tribes  of  men,  and  moulds  to  good  ; 
The  evil  Past,  when  understood, 

Is  good,  the  Present  better  still." 

IV. 

My  heart  grew  lighter  as  the  night 

Wore  on  ;  the  winds  had  ceased  to  blow, 
The  withered  leaves  were  laid  in  snow, 

And  all  the  long  dark  streets  were  white. 

I  saw  the  young,  I  saw  the  fair, 
Where    window   squares   were    touched   with 
flame  ; 
5 


66  A    NEW    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

Through  opening  doors  their  laughter  came, 
And  mellow  music  charmed  the  air. 

"  The  past,"  I  said,  "  is  dead  and  cold, 
And  better  so  ;  't  is  wrong  to  grieve  ; 
I  would  not  change  this  Christmas  eve 

For  all  the  merry  Yules  of  old. 

"  The  Yule  log  and  the  wassail-bowl, 

The  mistletoe,  may  pass  away ; 

We  keep  a  better  holiday, 
*The  perfect  Christmas  of  the  soul ! 

"  I  celebrate  thy  birth  to-night, 

Here  in  the  darkness  and  the  snow, 
And  thou  art  with  me  as  I  go, 

Dear  Christ !  a  presence  and  a  light. 

"  Thy  mission  was  a  double  one, 

For  God,  and  man  ;  with  thee  began 
The  law  of  God,  the  law  of  man, 

The  sovereign  Will  that  will  be  done. 

"  Before  thou  cam'st  the  world  was  blind, 
For  what  was  false,  or  what  was  true, 


A    NEW    CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  6/ 

They  did  but  guess,  they  never  knew  ; 
Thou  wert  the  Saviour  of  mankind. 

"  Thou  wert  the  truth  ordained  above 
To  slay  the  falsehoods  of  the  past, 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  crime  of  caste, 

And  usher  in  the  reign  of  love. 

"  The  rights  of  man  began  with  thee, 
Incarnate  Love !     For  where  love  reigns 
Farewell  to  servitude  and  chains  ; 

The  law  of  Christ  is  liberty. 

"  And  Liberty  her  dwelling-place 
Hath  made  with  us ;  and  I  can  see 
The  vast  Republics  yet  to  be, 

The  freedom  of  the  human  race  !  " 

The  stars  were,  out,  the  moon  was  bright, 
For  now  the  sky  was  clear  of  snow  ; 
No  cloud  above,  no  stain  below, 

It  was  a  pure  and  blessed  night. 

The  quiet  of  the  earth  and  skies 
Had  settled  on  my  troubled  heart  ; 
I  seemed  to  walk  with  Christ  apart, 

I  walked  the  streets  of  Paradise  ! 


68  THE   WINE-CUP. 


THE  WINE-CUP. 

T    YCIUS,  the  Cretan  prince,  of  race  divine, 
-* — '  Like  many  a  royal  youth,  was  fond  of  wine  ; 
So,  when  his  father  died  and  left  him  king, 
He  spent  his  days  and  nights  in  revelling. 
Show  him  a  wine-cup,  he  would  soon  lay  down 
His  sceptre,  and  for  roses  change  his  crown,  — 
Neglectful  of  his  people  and  his  state, 
The  noble  cares  that  make  a  monarch  great. 

One  day  in  summer,  —  so  the  story  goes,  — 
Among  his  seeming  friends,  but  secret  foes, 
He  sat,  and  drained  the  wine-cup,  when  there  came 
A  gray-haired  man,  and  called  him  by  his  name, 
"  Lycius  ! "     It  was  his  tutor,  Philocles, 
Who  held  him  when  a  child  upon  his  knees. 
"  Lycius,"  the  old  man  said,  "  it  suits  not  you 
To  waste  your  life  among  this  drunken  crew. 
Bethink  you  of  your  sire,  and  how  he  died 
For  that  bright  sceptre  lying  by  your  side, 


THE   WINE-CUP.  69 

And  of  the  blood  your  loving  people  shed 

To  keep  that  golden  circlet  on  your  head. 

Ah  !  how  have  you  repaid  them  ? "     "  Philocles," 

The  Prince  replied,  "  what  idle  words  are  these  ? 

I  loved  my  father,  and  I  mourned  his  fate  ; 

But  death  must  come  to  all  men,  soon  or  late. 

Could  we  recall  our  dear  ones  from  their  urn, 

Just  as  they  lived  and  loved,  't  were  well  to  mourn  ; 

But  since  we  cannot,  let  us  smile  instead : 

I  hold  the  living  better  than  the  dead. 

My  father  reigned  and  died :  I  live  and  reign. 

As  for  my  people,  why  should  they  complain  ? 

Have  I  not  ended  all  their  deadly  wars, 

Bound  up  their  wounds,  and  honored  their  old 
scars  ? 

They  bleed  no  more ;  enough  for  me,  and  mine, 

The  blood  o'  th'  grape,  —  the  ripe,  the  royal  wine  ! 

Slaves,  fill  my  cup  again ! "  They  filled,  and 
crowned 

His  brow  with  roses,  but  the  old  man  frowned. 

"Lycius,"  he  said  once  more,  "the  State  de 
mands 

Something  besides  the  wine-cup  in  your  hands  ; 


7O  THE   WINE-CUP. 

Resume  your  crown  and  septre,  be  not  blind : 
Kings  live  not  for  themselves,  but  for  mankind." 

"  Good  Philocles,"  the  Prince,  ashamed,  replied, 

His  soft  eye  lighting  with  a  flash  of  pride, 

"  Your  wisdom  has  forgotten  one  small  thing,  — 

I  am  no  more  your  pupil  but  your  king. 

Kings  are  in  place  of  gods  ;  remember,  then, 

They  answer  to  the  gods,  and  not  to  men." 

"  Hear,  then,  the  gods,  who  speak  to-day,  through 

me, 

The  sad  but  certain  words  of  prophecy : 
'  Touch  not  the  cup  ;  small  sins  in  kings  are  great ; 
Be  wise  in  time,  nor  further  tempt  your  fate.' " 

"  Old  man  !  there  is  no  Fate,  save  that  which  lies 
In  our  own  hands  that  shape  our  destinies : 
It  is  a  dream.     If  I  should  will  and  do 
A  deed  of  ill,  no  good  could  thence  ensue ; 
And,  willing  goodness,  shall  not  goodness  be 
Sovereign,  like  ill,  to  save  herself,  and  me  ? 
I  laugh  at  Fate."    The  wise  man  shook  his  head. 
"  Remember  what  the  oracles  have  said  : 


THE   WINE-CUP.  /I 

'  What  most  he  loves,  who  rules  this  Cretan  land, 
Shall  perish  by  the  wine-cup  in  his  hand.' " 
"  Prophet  of  ill !  no  more,  or  you  shall  die  ! 
See  how  my  deeds  shall  give  your  words  the  lie, 
And  baffle  Fate,  and  all  who  hate  me. —  so  ! " 
Sheer  through  the  casement,  in  the  court  below, 
He  dashed  the  half-drained  goblet  in  disdain, 
That  scattered,  as  it  flew,  a  bloody  rain. 
His  courtiers  laughed.    But  now  a  woman's  shriek 
Rose  terrible  without,  and  blanched  his  cheek. 
He  hurried  to  the  casement  in  a  fright, 
And  lo  !  his  eyes  were  blasted  with  a  sight 
Too  pitiful  to  think  of,  —  death  was  there, 
And  wringing  hands,  and  madness,  and  despair  ! 
There  stood  a  nurse,  and  on  her  bosom  lay 
A  dying  child,  whose  life-blood  streamed  away, 
Reddening  its  robe  like  wine  !     It  was  his  own, 
His  son,  —  the  prince  that  should  have  filled  the 

throne 

When  he  was  dead,  and  ruled  the  Cretan  land, 
Slain  by  the  wine-cup  from  his  father's  hand !  . 


72  THE   KING'S    SENTINEL. 


THE   KING'S    SENTINEL. 

T  TPON  a  time,  unbidden,  came  a  man 

Before  the  mighty  king  of  Teberistan. 
When  the  king  saw  this  daring  man,  he  cried, 
"Who  art  thou,  fellow  ?  "     Whereto  he  replied, 
"A  lion-hunter  and  a  swordsman,  I ; 
Moreover,  I  am  skilled  in  archery : 
A  famous  bowman,  who  of  men  alone 
Can  drive  his  arrows  through  the  hardest  stone. 
Besides  my  courage,  tried  in  desperate  wars, 
I  know  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  stars. 
First  in  the  service  of  Emeer  Khojend, 
Who,  friend  to  none,  has  none  to  be  his  friend,— 
Him  have  I  left,  I  hope,  an  honest  man, 
To  serve,  if  so  he  wills,  the  Lord  of  Teberistan.  " 
To  whom  in  answer:  "I  have  men  enow, 
Stalwart  like  thee,  apt  with  the  sword  and  bow ; 
These  no  king  lacks,  or  need  to :  what  we  need 
Are  men  who  may  be  trusted,  —  word  and  deed  ; 


THE   KING'S   SENTINEL.  73 

Who,  to  keep  pain  from  us,  would  yield  their 

breath, 

Faithful  in  life,  and  faithfuller  in  death." 
"Try  me."      As   thrice  the  monarch  Haps  his 

hands, 

The  Captain  of  the  Guard  before  him  stands, 
Amazed  that  one,  unknown  of  him,  had  come 
In  to  the  king,  and  fearful  of  his  doom. 
Sternly  his  lord :  "  You  guard  me,  slave,  so  well 
That  I  have  made  this  man  my  sentinel." 
Thus  did  the  happy  archer  gain  his  end, 
And  thus  his  sovereign  find  at  last  a  friend, 
Who  from  that  hour  was  to  his  service  bound, 
Keen  as  his  hawk,  and  faithful  as  his  hound. 

Now  when  a  moon  of  nights  had  ta'en  its  flight, 
Amid  the  darkness  of  a  summer  night, 
The  king  awoke,  alarmed,  with  fluttering  breath, 
Like  one  who  struggles  in  the  toils  of  death, 
And  wandered  to  his  lattice,  which  stood  wide, 
Whence,  down  below  him  in  the  court,  he  spied 
A  shadowy  figure  with  a  threatening  spear. 
"  What  man  art  thou  ?  —  if  man  —  and  wherefore 
here?" 


74  THE    KINGS    SENTINEL. 

"  Your  sentinel,  and  servant,  O  my  lord  ! " 

"  Hearken  ! "     They  did.     And  now  a  voice  was 

heard, 

But  whether  from  the  desert  far  away, 
Or  from  the  neighbor-garden,  who  could  say  ? 
So  far  it  was,  yet  near,  so  loud,  yet  low ; 
"  Who  calls  ? "  it  said.     It  sighed,  "  I  go  !  I  go  !  " 
Then  spake  the  pallid  king,  in  trouble  sore, 
"  Have  you  this  dreadful  summons  heard  before  ?  " 
"  That  voice,  or  something  like  it,  have  I  heard 
(Perchance  the  wailing  of  some  magic  bird) 
Three  nights,  and  at  this  very  hour,  O  king ! 
But  could  not  quit  my  post  to  seek  the  thing. 
But  now,  if  you  command  me,  I  will  try, 
Where  the  sound  was,  to  find  the  mystery." 
"Go  !  follow  where  it  leads,  if  anywhere, 
And  what  it  is,  and  means,  to  me  declare. 
It  may  be  ill,  but  I  will  hope  the  best : 
But  haste,  for  I  am  weary,  and  must  rest." 
Softly,  as  one  that  would  surprise  a  thief, 
Who  might  detect  the  rustling  of  a  leaf, 
The  sentinel  stole  out  into  the  night, 
Nor  knew  that  the  king  kept  him  still  in  sight,  — 


THE    KING'S    SENTINEL.  75 

Behind  him,  with  a  blanket  o'er  his  head, 
Black-draped  down  to  his  feet,  as  he  were  dead ; 
But  the  spear  trembled  in  his  hands,  his  knees 
Weakened;  at  length  he  sank  berieath  the  trees. 
Again  the  voice  was  heard,  and  now  more  near 
Than  when  it  faded  last,  —  it  was  so  clear : 
11 1 go  !     What  man  will  force  me  to  return  ?  " 
"Now,"  thought  the  wondering  soldier,"!  shall 

learn 

Who  speaks,  and  why."    And,  looking  up,  he  saw 
What  filled  his  simple  soul  with  love  and  awe,  — 
A  noble  woman  standing  by  his  side, 
Who  might  have  been  the  widow  or  the  bride 
Of  some  great  king,  so  much  of  joy  and  woe 
Hung  on  the  perfect  lips  that  breathed,  "  I  go," 
Shone  in  the  wondering  eyes,  dimmed  the  bright 

hair, — 

No  woman,  born  of  woman,  half  so  fair  ! 
"Most  beautiful!  who  art  thou  ? "     "Know,  O 

man, 

I  am  his  life,  who  rules  in  Teberistan,  — 
The  spirit  of  your  lord,  whose  end  is  nigh, 
Except  some   friend  —  what   friend  ?  —  for   him 

will  die," 


76  THE  KING'S  SENTINEL. 

"  Can  I  ? "     But  she  :  "  'T  is  written  you  must  live." 
"  What,  theji,  —  my  life  rejected,  —  can  I  give  ? " 
"  You  have  a  son,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear, 
Feeling  her  way.,  it  seemed,  in  hope  and  fear, 
Lest  what  she  would  demand  should  be  denied. 
He  pressed  a  sudden  hand  against  his  side 
Where  his  heart  ached,  but  spake  not.     "  Fetch 

your  son, 

And  I  remain  ;  refuse,  and  I  am  gone 
Even  while  we  parley."     Stifling  the  great  sigh 
That  heaved  his  breast,  he  answered,  "  He  shall 

die." 

And  now  for  the  first  time  he  was  aware 
Besides  themselves  there  was  a  Presence  there, 
Which  made  his  blood  run  cold,  but  did  not  shake 
His  resolution  that,  for  the  king's  sake, 
His  boy  must  perish.     So  he  said,  "  I  go," 
And  like  the  swiftest  arrow  from  his  bow 
The  phantom  vanished,  and  he  went  to  bring 
His  sleeping  child  as  ransom  for  the  king, 
Leaving  that  strange,  bright  woman  there  alone ; 
Who,  smiling  sadly,  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
Ran  to  her  lord,  fallen  upon  the  ground  ; 
And  while  she  lifted  his  dead  weight,  and  wound 


THE   KING'S    SENTINEL.  77 

Her  arms  around  him,  and  her  tears  did  rain, 
Kissed  his  cold  lips,  till,  warmed,  they  kissed  her 

own  again ! 

Meanwhile  the  sentinel  down  the  royal  park 
Groped  his  way  homeward,  stumbling  in  the  dark, 
Uncertain  of  himself  and  all  about; 
For  the  low  branches  were  as  hands  thrust  out,  — 
But  whether  to  urge  faster,  or  delay, 
Since  they  both  clutched  and  pushed,  he  could 

not  say ; 

Nor,  so  irregular  his  heart's  wild  beat, 
Whether  he  ran,  or  dragged  his  lagging  feet ! 
When,  half  a  league  being  over,  he  was  near 
His  poor,  mean  hut,  there  broke  upon  his  ear, — 
As  from  a  child  who  wakes  in  dreams  of  pain, 
And,  while  its  parents  listen,  sleeps  again,  — 
A  cry  like  Father  !     Whence,  and  whose,  the  cry  ? 
Was  it  from  out  the  hut,  or  in  the  sky  ? 
What  if  some  robber  with  the  boy  had  fled  ? 
What  —  dreadful  thought !  —  what  if  the  boy  were 

dead  ? 

He  reached  the  door  in  haste,  and  found  it  barred, 
As  when  at  set  of  sun  he  went  on  guard, 


78  THE  KING'S  SENTINEL. 

Shutting  the  lad  in  from  all  nightly  harms, 
As  safe  as  in  the  loving  mother  arms 
Which  could  no  longer  fold  him  :  all  Was  fast,  — 
No  footstep  since  his  own  that  night  had  passed 
Across  the  threshold,  —  no  man  had  been  there  ; 
'T  was  still  within,  and  cold,  and  dark,  and  bare  ;  — 
Bare,  but  not  dark ;  for,  opening  now  the  door, 
The  fitful  moon,  late  hidden,  out  once  more 
Thrust  its  sharp  crescent  through  the   starless 

gloom 

Like  a  long  cimeter,  and  smote  the  room 
With  pitiless  brightness,  and  himself  with  dread,  — 
Poor,  childless  man !  —  for  there  his  child  was 

dead! 
He  spake  not,  wept  not,  stirred  not ;  one  might 

say, 

Till  that  first  awful  moment  passed  away, 
He  was  not,  but  some  dead  man  in  his  place 
Stood,  with  a  deathless  sorrow  in  its  face ! 
Then  —  for  a  heart  so  stricken  as  was  his, 
So  suddenly  set  upon  by  agonies, 
Must  find  as  sudden  a  relief,  or  break  — 
He  wept  a  little  for  his  own  sad  sake, 


THE    KING  S    SENTINEL.  7Q 

And  for  the  boy  that  lay  there  without  breath, 
Whom  he  so  freely  sacrificed  to  Death ! 
Thereafter  kneeling  softly  by  the  bed, 
Face  buried,  and  hands  wrung  above  his  head, 
He  said  what  prayer  came  to  him  ;  and  be  sure 
The  prayers  of  all  men  at  such  times  are  pure. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  lifting  to  his  heart 
Its  precious  burden  —  limbs  that  dropped  apart  — 
Hands  that  no  longer  clasped  him  —  little  feet 
That  nevermore  would  run  his  own  to  meet,  — 
Wrapping  his  cloak  round  all  with  loving  care, 
To  shield  it  from  the  dew  and  the  cold  air, 
He  staggered  slowly  out  in  the  black  night. 
Nowhere  was  that  strange  woman  now  in  sight 
To  take  the  child  ;  but  at  the  palace  gate 
The  king  stood  waiting  him,  —  reprieved  of  Fate  !' 
"What   was   it,    soldier?"      "God   preserve   the 

king !  — 
'T  was  nothing."     "Tell  me,  quickly."     "A  small 

thing, 

Not  worth  your  hearing.     In  the  park  I  found 
A  lonely  woman  sitting  on  the  ground, 
Wailing  her  husband,  who  had  done  her  wrong, 


SO  THE    KING'S    SENTINEL. 

Whose  house  she  had  forsaken,  —  but  not  long  ; 
For  I   made   peace   between   them,  —  dried  the 

tears, 
And  added   some,  I   hope,   to   their  now  happy 

years." 
"What  bear  you  there?"     "A  child    I  was   to 

bring  —  " 

He  paused  a  moment  —  "It  is  mine,  O  king!" 
"I  followed,  and  know  all.  So  young  to  die  — 
Poor  thing  !  —  for  me  ! .  .  .  .  You  should  be  king, 

not  I. 

You  shall  be  my  Vizier,  —  shake  not  your  head  ; 
I  swear  it  shall  be  so.     Be  comforted. 
For  this  dead  child  of  yours,  who  met  my  doom, 
I  will  have  built  for  him  a  costly  tomb 
Of  divers  marbles,  glorious  to  behold, 
With  many  a  rich  device  inlaid  of  gold, 
Ivory,  and  precious  stones,  and  thereupon 
Blazoned  the  name  and  story  of  your  son, 
And  yours,  Vizier,  of  whom  shall  history  tell 
That  never  King  but  one  had  such  a  Sentinel ! " 


THE   BALLAD    OF    CRECY.  8 1 


THE  BALLAD   OF   CRECY. 

\  T  7  HAT  man-at-arms,  or  knight 
^  ^      Of  doughty  deeds  in  fight, — 
What  king  whose  dauntless  might 

Still  lives  in  story, 
Deserves  such  fame  as  one 
Who,  when  his  sight  was  gone, 
Fought  till  he  fell,  —  King  John, 
Bohemia's  glory  ? 

That  fatal  August  day 

The  French  and  English  lay 

Drawn  up  in  dread  array, 

With  bows  and  lances, 
Determined  then  to  try 
Which  host  could  bravest  die, 
Which  host  would  soonest  fly,  — 

England's  or  France's. 


82  THE    BALLAD    OF    CRECY. 

The  morning  light  revealed 
On  Crecy's  famous  field, 
Armed  with  his  spear  and  shield, 

This  fearless  foeman, 
Who,  with  his  old  blind  eyes, 
Will  for  his  French  allies 
Do  battle  till  he  dies,  — 

And  fly  from  no  man ! 

His  bridle  rein  he  tied 

To  a  good  knight's  at  his  side, 

Among  the  French  to  ride, 

That  saw  astounded 
Who  with  their  foremost  prest, 
His  shield  before  his  breast, 
His  long  spear  set  in  rest,  — 

The  trumpet  sounded ! 

Full  tilt  against  their  foes, 
WThere  thickest  fell  the  blows, 
And  war-cries  mingling  rose, 

"  St.  George  !  "  "  St.  Denys  !  " 


THE   BALLAD    OF    CRECY.  83 

Driven  by  the  trumpet's  blare 
Where  most  the  English  dare, 
And  where  the  French  despair,  — 
He  there  and  then  is  ! 


Up,  down,  he  rode,  and  thrust ; 
Unhorsed,  knights  rolled  in  the  dust  ; 
Whom  he  encounters  must 

Go  down  or  fly  him : 
All  round  the  bloody  field 
Spears  rattle  on  his  shield, 
But  none  can  make  him  yield  ; 

Few  venture  nigh  him 

Here,  there,  he  rides  until 
His  horse  perforce  stands  still : 
He  spurs  it,  but  it  will 

No  longer  mind  him  ; 
It  cannot  stir  for  fright, 
So  desperate  now  the  fight, 
Death  on  the  left,  the  right, 

Before,  behind  him ! 


84  THE   BALLAD    OF    CRECY. 

But  this,  so  blind  was  he, 
The  old  king  could  not  see ; 
An  he  had  seen,  pardie ! 

His  soul  delighting 
Had  faster  rained  down  blows 
•Upon  his  puny  foes, 
And  in  the  dark  death-throes 

Had  gone  out  fighting  ! 

When  the  last  rout  was  done, 
And  when  the  English  won, 
They  found  the  brave  King  John, 

Who  fought  so  lately, 
Stone  dead,  —  his  old  blind  eyes 
Uplooking  to  the  skies, 
As  he  again  would  rise 

And  battle  greatly ! 

They  bore  him  to  his  rest, 
His  shield  upon  his  breast, 
Where  blazoned  was  his  crest,  — 

Three  ostrich  feathers ; 


THE   BALLAD    OF   CRECY.  85 

Under,  in  gold,  was  seen 
The  royal  words,  "  ICH  DIEN," 
Which  most  kings  now  think  mean, — 
Save  in  foul  weathers  ! 

Not  so  the  Black  Prince  thought, 
Who  then  at  Crecy  fought, 
And  old  John's  valor  caught, 

And  was  victorious. 
"  Who  serve  like  him,"  quoth  he, 
"  Commend  themselves  to  me ; 
Such  royal  servants  be 

Forever  glorious ! " 


86  ROME. 


ROME. 

"  Roma,  Roma,  Roma ! 
Non  e  piii  come  era  prima." 

STILL  the  city  stands  : 
Fallen  away 
From  its  old  renown,  — 
The  wonder  and  the  terror  of  the  Lands  ! 
Temple  and  tower  gone  down  — 
Nothing  left  to  fall 
But  weeds  upon  the  wall ; 
All  decay  — 
Utterly  desolate  ! 

Haunted  by  the  ghost  of  its  dead  state, 
Memory  of  its  men  who  ruled  like  gods, 
Memory  of  the  gods  who  ruled  its  men, 
Dreaming  in  despair  of  what  was  then,  - 
Flamens,  augurs,  lictors  with  their  rods,  — 
Legions  on  their  marches 
Through  triumphal  arches,  — 

Caesar  in  his  car 
With  the  spoils  of  war,  — 


ROME.  / 

From  Carthage,  from  Egypt,  from  all  the  realms 

afar, 

And,  drooping  in  his  train, 
Proud  kings  overthrown, 
Their  sceptres  now  his  own, 
And  palest  queens  discrowned,  superb  in  their 
disdain 

Of  Caesar  marching  home 
Victorious  to  Rome ! 
Who  on  her  Seven  Hills 
Sits,  Mistress  of  the  World 

Which  she  with  carnage  fills  ; 
Hated  of  men,  but  to  the  gods  austere 

Dear, 
For  does  not  mightiest  Jove  protect,  defend  ? 

And  his  eagle  send 

To  perch  upon  her  standards  ?     Look  above, 
There  where  his  million  altar-smokes  are  curled,  — 
The  Capitolian  Jove ! 
And  Mars  —  Mars, 
He  of  the  shield  and  spear,  — 
The  stern,  the  cruel,  the  Invincible, 

Whose  only  thought  is  kill! 


88  ROME. 

How  dear 
To  him  and  his  this  Rome  of  never-ending  wars ! 

—  Hidden  in  the  secret  shrine, 
(Stately  Juno,  come  not  here, 
Chaste  Diana,  disappear,  — 

These  are  none  of  thine  !) 
Where  they  wreathe  the  roses, 

Where  they  pour  the  wine,  — 
Who  on  that  couch  reposes, 

With  arms  that  twine  and  twine  ? 

—  Venus  Aphrodite, 
Goddess  of  the  Sea,  — 

She  is  the  most  mighty, 

And  the  sweetest,  she ! 
Venus  !  Venus  !  Venus  ! 
Thou  alone  of  all  the  Powers 

Dost  from  sorrow  screen  us, 
Thy  power  alone  in  all  the  hours 
Lets  nothing  come  between  us, 
Who  adore  thee,  Venus  !  — 

Nothing  part 
Heart  from  heart 
In  thy  bliss  of  blisses,  — 
But  our  delaying  kisses ! 


ROME.  89 

—  Horror  !  —  Who  are  these  ? 
Shapes,  or  shadows  rather, 
Which  like  the  night  do  gather  — 
From  where  ?  for  what  ?     To  seize  ! 
The  Fates  !     The  Fates  ! 
—  The  Hun  is  at  the  gates  ! 

Still  the  city  stands  ! 

Fallen  away 
From  its  old  renown  — 
The  wonder  and  the  terror  of  the  Lands  ! 
Temple  and  tower  gone  down  — 
Nothing  left  to  fall 
But  weeds  upon  the  wall ; 
All  decay  — 
Utterly  desolate ! 


90  C^SAR. 

\ 

C^SAR. 

"  Render,  therefore,  unto  Caesar  the  things  which  are  Csesar's." 
I. 

S~*  jES AR  is  fallen  !     Shout ! 

^— /     Shout  that  his  sword  is  broken,  lost  his 

crown ! 
Shout  that  his  braggart  hosts  are  put  to  rout ! 

His  empire  has  gone  down ! 
Exult  as  wildly  as  ye  would  have  wailed 

If  Caesar  had  prevailed  ! 
That  yesterday  you  feared  him, 
Whom  you  to-day  despise, 

Forget,  deny ; 
But  be  no  more  deceived  by  kingly  lies, 

For  what  he  was  to  all  your  kings  endeared 

him, 
As  what  they  are  finds  favor  in  your  eyes. 

Ah !  why,  why 

For  such  as  these,  and  he,  will  ye  still  live  and 
die? 


,  CAESAR.  91 

II. 

Be  just — just ! 
What  has  he  done  your  rulers  would  not  do  ? 

What  do  they  care  for  you, 
Ye  peoples,  who  in  princes  put  your  trust  ? 
What    has    he   done,    I   say,   they   have   not 

done  ? 

Made  blood  like  water  run 
In  the  dense  streets  his  dreadful  cannon  swept, 
Where  France  above  her  slaughtered  children 

wept  ? 

It  is  a  way  they  have  who  wear  the  crown : 
Your  good  king  shot  his  loving  subjects  down  ; 
But,  though  submissive,  brave, 

They  gathered  up  their  dead, 
And,  while  they  bore  them  to  their  honored 

grave, 
Compelled  him  to  look  on  with  white,  uncovered 

head ! 
—  If  this,  our  Caesar,  strode  through  guilt  to 

power, 

If  in  the  blood  he  spilt  he  built  his  throne, 
He  did  not  stand  alone, 


92  CAESAR. 

For  France  was  with  him  in  that  desperate 

hour ; 
For,  though  she  might  not  welcome  the  strong 

hand 
That  steered  her  suddenly  from  the  dangerous 

shore, 
Whereon,  full  driven,  she  had  been  wrecked  before, 

And  brought  her  safe  to  land, 
She  let  the  helm  within  his  hand  remain ; 
For  rent  by  furious  factions, 
And  weary  of  distractions, 

She  wanted  peace  again  — 
Demanded  peace,  the  wealth  that  she  had  lost, 
And  her  old  greatness,  at  whatever  cost. 

—  Remember  what  he  found  her, 
And  what  she  was  when  her  first  Caesar  fell, 
With  Europe  armed  around  her, 

And  none  to  wish  her  well ! 
How  with  their   bayonets   dripping  with  her 

blood, 

Its  kings  brought  back  the  kings  who  had  op 
pressed  her, 

But  never  once  redressed  her,  — 
And  all  pronounced  it  good ! 


.  93 

—  Too  weak,  they  felt,  to  chain 
Her  giant  limbs  again, 

That  with  the  world  had  wrestled,  and  might 

yet;- 

They  drugged  her  till  she  slept, 
And  then  upon  her  crept, 
And  o'er  her  cast  a  net. 
She  struggled,  but  in  vain  ; 
But  she  did  not  forget. 

—  And  he  did  not  forget ! 
And  when,  a  stormy  wooer, 
That  would  no  longer  sue  her, 

He  leaped  into  her  arms, 
It  was  that  he  might  free  her, 
And  that  the  world  might  see  her 

In  her  recovered  charms,  — 
No  trace  of  tears,  no  fear  of  tribulations, 
Most  beautiful,  and  all-powerful,  —  the  queen  of 
all  the  nations ! 

—  This  her  Caesar  made  her, 
And  this  at  last  betrayed  her ; 

For  this  has  brought  upon  her  the  conquering 
Invader ! 


94 

III. 

Caesar  is  fallen  !     Shout ! 
Shout  till  your  throats  are  hoarse,  and  stunned 

your  ears ; 
Fire  your  loud  cannon,  hang  your  banners  out ; 

But  leave  me  to  my  tears ! 
Not  o'er  this  fallen  Caesar  do  I  weep, 

Nor  for  the  thousands  whom  to  death  he  led, 
Nor  for  your  thousands  in  the  same  dark  sleep, — 

I  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 
I  weep  for  the  unutterable  blindness 

That  makes  a  Caesar  possible  to-day, 
That  will  not  let  the  nations  live  in  kindness, 

And  die  the  natural  way ! 
—  What  though  ye  have  one  Caesar  overthrown  ? 
Ye  have  set  up  another  of  your  own. 
What  is  it,  pray,  to  us  ? 

What  is  it  to  the  Race 
Whether  the  Gaul  or  Pruss, 
The  Latin  or  the  Russ, 
Is  now  in  Caesar's  place  ? 
It  matters  not  a  jot,  — 
They  love  us  —  love  us  not ! 


MARE   VICTUM.  95 

They  trust  us,  when  they  must ; 

They  use  us,  when  they  will ; 
They  grind  us  to  the  dust ; 

They  cheat,  they  rob,  they  kill ! 
Exult  who  may.     For  me,  I  must  deplore,  — 
I  must  lament,  and  pray 
That  God  will  bring  the  day 

When  Caesar  is  no  more ! 


MARE  VICTUM. 
i. 

\  II  7  HAT  would  they  think  of  this,  the  men  of 

*  *  old, 

Against  whose  little  world  its  waters  rolled, 
Immeasurable,  pitiless  as  Fate, 

A  thing  to  fear  and  hate  ? 
Age  after  age  they  saw  it  flow,  and  flow, 

Lifting  the  weeds,  and  laying  bare  the  sands  ; 
Whence  did  it  come,  and  whither  did  it  go  ? 
To  what  far  isles,  what  undiscovered  lands  ? 


96  MARE   VICTUM. 

Who   knoweth  ?     None    can   say,   for  none  has 

crossed 

That  unknown  sea  ;  no  sail  has  ventured  there, 
Save  what  the  storms  have  driven,  and  those  are 

lost, 

And  none  have  come  —  from  where  ? 
Beyond  the  straits  where  those  great  pillars  stand 
Of  Hercules,  there  is  no  solid  land  ; 
Only  the  fabled  Islands  of  the  Blest, 
That  slumber  somewhere  in  the  golden  West ; 
The  Fortunate  Isles,  where  falls  no  winter  snow, 
But   where   the   palm-trees   wave   in   endless 

spring, 

And  the  birds  sing, 
And  balmy  west  winds  blow  ! 
Beyond  this  bright  Elysium  all  is  sea ; 
A  plain  of  foam  that  stretches  on  and  on, 
Beyond  the  clouds,  beyond  the  setting  sun, 
Endless  and  desolate  as  Eternity  ! 
At  last,  from  out  the  wild  and  stormy  north  — 
Or  is  it  but  a  dream  ?  —  a  bark  puts  forth 
Into  that  unknown  sea.     It  nears  me  now ; 
I  see  its  flapping  sails,  its  dragon  prow, 


MARE    VICTUM.  97 

Its  daring  men  ;  I  know  the  arms  they  bear  ; 
I  know  those  shaggy  Jarls  with  lengths  of  yellow 

hair! 

They  go  and  come  no  more. 
Still  lies  the  sea  as  awful  as  before ! 
Who  shall  explore  its  bounds,  if  bounds  there 

be? 
Who  shall  make  known  to  Man  the  secret  of  the 

Sea? 
The  Genoese  !     His  little  fleet  departs, 

Steered  by  the  prospering  pilot  of  the  wind. 
The  sailors  crowd  the  stern  with  troubled  hearts, 
Watching    their    homes    that    slowly   drop 

behind  ; 

His  looms  before,  for  by  the  prow  he  stands, 
And  sees  in  his  rapt  thoughts  the  undiscovered 

lands ! 
All  day  they  sail ;  the  sun  goes  down  at  night 

Below  the  waves,  and  land  is  still  afar ; 
The  sluggish  sailors  sleep,  but  see,  his  light 

As  steady  as  a  star ! 

He  pores  upon  his  chart  with  sleepless  eyes, 
Till  day  returns  and  walks  the  gloomy  skies. 
7 


98  MARE    VICTUM. 

In  vain  the  sullen  sailors  climb  the  shrouds, 

And  strain  their  eyes  upon  the  giddy  mast ; 
They    see    the   sky,    the    sun,    the   anchored 

.clouds  — 

The  only  Land  is  passed ! 
Day  follows  day,  night,  night ;  and  sea  and  sky 
Still  yawn  beyond,  and  fear  to  fear  succeeds. 
At  last  a  knot  of  weeds  goes  drifting  by, 

And  then  a  sea  of  weeds ! 
The  winds  are  faint  with  spice,  the  skies  are 

bland 
And    filled    with  singing    birds,    and    some 

alight, 

And  cheer  the  sailors  with  their  news  of  land, 
Until  they  fly  at  night 
At  last  they  see  a  light ! 
The  keen-eyed  Admiral  sees  it  from  his  bark, 
A  little  dancing  flame  that  flickers  through  the 

dark! 

They  bed  their  rusty  anchors  in  the  sand, 
And  all  night  long  they  lie  before  the  land, 

And  watch  and  pray  for  day ! 
When  morning  lifts  the  mist,  a  league  away, 


MARE    VICTUM.  99 

Like  some  long  cloud  on  Ocean's  glittering 

floor, 
It  takes  the  rising  sun  —  a  wooded  shore, 

With  many  a  glassy  bay  ! 

The  first  great  footstep  in  that  new-found  world 
Is  his,  who  plucked  it  from  the  greedy  main, 

And  his  the  earliest  kiss,  the  holiest  prayer ; 
He  draws  his  sword,  his  standard  is  unfurled, 

And  while  it  lifts  its  wedded  crowns  in  air 
He  plants  the  cross,  and  gives  his  world  to  Heaven 

and  Spain ! 
His  silver  furrow  faded  in  the  sea, 

But  thousands  followed  to  the  lands  he  won : 
They  grew  as  native  to  the  waves,  as  free 

As  sea-birds  in  the  sun  ! 
Their  white  sails  glanced  in  every  bay  and 

stream  ! 

They  climbed  the  hills,  they  tracked  the  path 
less  woods, 
And  towns  and  cities  o'er  the  solitudes 

Rose,  as  in  a  dream  ! 

The  happy  Worlds  exchanged  their  riches  then  ; 
The  New  sent  forth  her  tributes  to  the  Old, 


IOO  MARE   VICTUM. 

In  galleons  full  of  gold, 

And  she  repaid  with  men ! 
Thus  did  the  grand  old  sailor  wrest  the  key 
From  Nature's  grasp,  unlocking  all  the  Past, 
And  thus  was  won  at  last 
A  victory  o'er  the  sea  ! 

n. 

The  victory  of  To-day 
Completes  what  he  began, 
Along  the  dark  and  barren  watery  way, 

And  in  the  Mind  of  Man  ! 
He  did  but  find  a  world  of  land,  but  we 
What  worlds  of  thought  in  land,  and  air,  and 

sea  ! 
Beside    our    ships,    whose    masts    o'ertop    the 

trees 

On  windy  hills,  whose  hulls  are  palaces, 
His  crazy  caravels 
Were  little  seashore  shells  ! 
His  weary  months  of  wandering  seem  a  dream  ; 
For,  sped  by  our  broad   sails   and  flashing 
wheels 


MARE    V1CTUM:  ID  I 

We  shorten  the  long  leagues  with  sliding 

keels, 
And  turn  the  months  to  days,  and  make  the  sea 

a  stream  ! 

The  worlds  are  nearer  now,  but  still  too  far ; 
They  must  be  nearer  still !     To  Saxon  men, 
Who  dare  to  think,  and  use  the  tongue  or  pen, 

What  can  be  long  a  bar  ? 
We  rob  the  Lightning  of  its  deadly  fires, 
And  make  it  bear  our  words  along  the  wires 
That  run  from  land  to  land.     Why  should  we  be 

Divided  by  the  Sea  ? 

It  shall  no  longer  be  !     A  chain  shall  run 
Below  the  stormy  waves,  and  bind  the  worlds  in 

one  ! 
Across  the  under-world  of  rocks  and  sands, 

Across  the  buried  lands  ; 
Through  wastes  of  seaweed,  tangled  in  their 

slime  ; 
'  Through  forests,  vaster  than  the  land  has 

known ; 
And  over  chasms  where  earthquakes  were 

o'erthrown 
Before  the  Birth  of  Time  ! 


-IO2  'MARE   VICTUM. 

'Tis  done  ! 

The  Worlds  are  One ! 
And  lo !  the  chain  that  binds  them  binds  the 

Race 

That  dwells  on  either  shore  ; 
By  Space  and  Time  no  more 
Divided,  for  to-day  there  is  no  Time  or  Space ! 

We  speak,  —  the  Lightnings  flee, 
Flashing  the  Thoughts  of  Man  across  the  Con 
quered  Sea ! 

in. 

Ring,  jubilant  bells  !  ring  out  a  merry  chime 
From  every  tower  and  steeple  in  the  land, 
Triumphant  music  for  the  march  of  Time, 

The  better  days  at  hand  ! 
And  you,  ye  cannon,  through  your  iron  lips, 
That   guard    the  dubious  peace  of  warlike 

Powers, 
Thunder  abroad  this  victory  of  ours 

From  all  your  forts  and  ships  ! 
We  need  your  noisy  voices  to  proclaim 

The  Nation's  joy  to-day  from  shore  to  shore; 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN.  IO3 

The  grim  protection  of  your  deathful  flame 

We  hope  to  need  no  more ; 
For,  save  our  English  brothers,  who  dare  be 
Our  foes,  or  rivals,  on  the  land  or  sea  ? 
Nor  dare  We  light  again,  as  in  the  Past ; 
For,  now  that  We  are  One,  contention  ends  ; 
We  are,  We  must  be  friends  ; 
This  victory  is  the  last ! 


N 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

A    HORATIAN    ODE. 

OT  as  when  some  great  captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  country  calls, 
Beyond  the  struggling  lines 
That  push  his  dread  designs 


To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead : 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 
Of  his  determined  men, 
Who  must  be  victors  then  ! 


IO4  ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 
The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 

Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords  !  — 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 
Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 
Do  we  to-day  deplore 
The  Man  that  is  no  more ! 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope, 
Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope,  — 
A  wonder,  blind  and  dumb, 
That  waits  —  what  is  to  come  ! 

Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  Madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen, 
Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 
And  murdered  while  we  slept ! 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth,  — 
Our  lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, — 
The  roof-tree  fallen,  —  all 
That  could  affright,  appall ! 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

Such  thunderbolts,  in  other  lands, 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands, 
But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 
Each  laurelled  Caesar's  brow ! 

No  Caesar  he  whom  we  lament, 

A  Man  without  a  precedent, 

Sent,  it  would  seem,  to  do 
His  work,  —  and  perish  too  ! 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  State, 
The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 
Which,  often  done  in  vain, 
Must  yet  be  done  again : 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war, 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far, 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy  :  — 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life, 
(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armed  man  ! ) 


IO6  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

Not  then  ;  but  when,  by  measures  meet,  — 

By  victory  and  by  defeat, 

By  courage,  patience,  skill, — 
The  people's  fixed  "  We  will!  " 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  Rebellion  dead,  — 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head,  — 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell,—  O,  /Whe  fell! 

The  time,  —  the  place,  —  the  stealing  shape,  • 
The  coward  shot,  —  the  swift  escape,  — 

The  wife,  —  the  widow's  scream, 

It  is  a  hideous  dream ! 

A  dream  ?  what  means  this  pageant,  then  ? 

These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when  they  meet, 
But  throng  the  silent  street  ? 

The  flags  half  mast,  that  late  so  high 

Flaunted  at  each  new  victory  ? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed, 
But  bloody  looks  the  red  !) 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN.  IO/ 

The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles, 
And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles  ? 
(No  house  too  poor  to  show 
The  nation's  badge  of  woe ! ) 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom,  — 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom,  — 
The  rolling  of  the  drums,  — 
The  dreadful  car  that  comes  ? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot ! 
Thy  country's  Father  slain 
By  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain ! 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed,  —  may  it  now  ! 

(God  lets  bad  instruments 

Produce  the  best  events.) 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was  :  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 

Was  never  known  before  ! 


108  ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers, 

The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours, 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild,  — 
The  man  to  guide  the  child ! 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit !) 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place. 

With  such  a  homely  face,  — 

Such  rustic  manners,  —  speech  uncouth,  — 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth  ! ) 
Untried,  untrained  to  bear 
The  more  than  kingly  care ! 

Ay !     And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 
The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 
Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew,  — 

The  people,  of  whom  he  was  one. 

No  gentleman,  like  Washington,  — 

(Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  room, 
To  have  him  in  their  tomb !) 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN.  IOQ 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands, 
Who  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  his  lands, 

Who  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do ! 

tr 

One  of  the  people  !     Born  to  be 

Their  curious  epitome ; 

To  share,  yet  rise  above 
Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind  (it  seemed  so  then), 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men  : 

Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor,  — 

But  now  they  will  endure  ! 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will, 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant  still ; 

Who,  since  his  work  was  good, 

Would  do  it  as  he  could. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt, 
And,  lacking  prescience,  went  without : 
Often  appeared  to  halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault ; 


IIO  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loath, 
And,  loving  both  sides,  angered  both : 
Was  —  not  like  Justice,  blind, 
But  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

No  hero  this  of  Roman  mould  ; 

Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old  : 

Perhaps  he  was  not  great,  — 
But  he  preserved  the  State ! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew ! 
O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few ! 

O  wonder  of  the  age, 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage  ! 

Peace  !     Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark  !  —  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 
The  trumpet's  wail  afar,  — 
And  see !  the  awful  car ! 

Peace  !     Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow ; 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar ! 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 
To  honor  all  they  can 
The  dust  of  that  good  man ! 

rif 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain  ; 
The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave, 
Attend  thee  to  the  grave  ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again, 
Your  late  commander  —  slain  ! 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall ; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge,  the  plough  ! 

(When  Justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand, 
If  Mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand, 

Nor  would  we  have  it  so,  — 
She  must  direct  the  blow  ! ) 


112  ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race, 
Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place, 
Know  ye  who  cometh  ?     He 
Who  hath  declared  ye  free  ! 

Bow  while  the  body  passes,  —  nay, 
Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray ! 
Weep,  weep  —  I  would  ye  might  - 
Your  poor  black  faces  white  ! 

And,  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 
Of  blue  and  white  and  red, 
To  strew  before  the  dead ! 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 

The  Fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 
But  in  his  modest  home ; 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, — 
There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 
And  there  his  bones  be  laid ! 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 
And  strangers  far  and  near, 
For  many  and  many  a  year  ! 

< 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 
The  virtues  shall  enroll 
Of  that  paternal  soul ! 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   ISIS. 


and  Osiris 

Children  were  of  Isis, 
Brothers  and  gods,  twin-born,  the  rulers  o£  her 

land, 
Which  prospered,  nothing  loath, 

Under  both, 

For  each  the  sceptre  held  with  equal  hand. 
8 


114  THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

Now  Typhon  and  Osiris 
With  their  great  mother  Isis 
Dwelt :  in  the  cities  one,  and  one  in  the  broad 

plains 
Whereon  a  subject  race, 

Dusk  of  face, 
Was  bondsman  unto  him  in  ancient  chains. 

Said  Typhon  once  to  Isis  : 
"  This  brother  mine,  Osiris, 
Does  wrong  to  keep  this  people  so  long  beneath 

his  yoke. 
They  fetch  him  corn  and  oil, 

For  him  they  toil, 
While  idle  all  the  year  he  sits."     So  Typhon  spoke. 

To  Typhon  then  spake  Isis  : 
"  My  son  he  is,  Osiris, 
As  -thou  my  son,  —  both  loved,  but  neither  less 

nor  more. 
If  his  these  bondsmen  born, 

Their  oil  and  corn,  — 
Who  built  your  palaces  that  line  the  shore  ? 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS.  I  15 

"  If  not  the  tribe,"  said  Isis, 
"  That  labors  for  Osiris, 
Barbaric,  —  a  much  better,  as  nearer  Us  than 

these. 
All  day  they  turn  your  wheels, 

And  your  proud  keels 
They  lay,  and  plough  for  you  the  dangerous  seas  ! 

"  Typhon  and  Osiris  ! " 
Said  the  sad  goddess  Isis, 
"  Children  of  mine,  unnatural,  unwise  as  men,  no 

more! 
Let  each  still  fill  his  throne, 

And  rule  his  own  : 
There  must  be  peace  between  you  as  before." 

To  Typhon  and  Osiris 
The  solemn  voice  of  Isis 
Was  as  a  wind  unheeded,  —  no  sooner  come  than 

gone  ! 
Speaking  their  own  rash  words, 

They  drew  their  swords, 
And,  calling  each  his  millions,  led  them  on. 


Il6  THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

"  O  Typhon  !  O  Osiris  ! " 
Cried  out  their  mother  Isis  ; 
But  neither  heard  her  warning,  for  each  with 

desperate  hand 
Struck  at  the  other's  heart,  — 

No  one  could  part ; 
So  war  and  waste  and  want  were  in  the  land. 

In  all  the  years  of  Isis 
And  Typhon  and  Osiris, 
Never  such  dreadful  battle,  such  courage,  such 

despair ; 
Brothers  with  brothers  fighting, 

In  blood  delighting,  — 
Razed  cities,  temples  sacked,  death  everywhere  I 

So  Typhon  and  Osiris 
Before  the  troubled  Isis 
Fought  four  dark  years  together,  each  bloodier 

than  the  last ; 
Till  stronger  Typhon's  swords 

And  cunning  words 
Prevailed,  and  pale  Osiris  fell  aghast ! 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS.  1 1/ 

Then  Typhon  slew  Osiris 

Before  the  weeping  Isis, 
And  after  he  was  dead  by  night  the  body  stole ; 

Whereat  who  followed  him 

Limb  from  limb 
Dismembered,  —  hoping  so  to  slay  the  soul. 

Thus  Typhon  rent  Osiris, 

To  the  great  grief  of  Isis, 

And  thus  his  mangled  body  was  scattered  through 

the  land : 
One  had  his  crowned  head, 

And  one  instead 

His   swordless   hand,  —  but   rings   were   on  the 
hand ! 

So  Typhon  hid  Osiris 
Away  from  sorrowing  Isis, 
Who  straight  began  her  journeys,  —  North,  South, 

and  East,  and  West. 
O  mother  most  undone ! 

Where  is  thy  son  ? 
Where  the  dead  one  whose  tomb  is  in  thy  breast  ? 


Il8  THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

Up  and  down  went  Isis 
Where  Typhon  and  Osiris 
Had  dwelt  before  their  trouble,  —  the  cities  and 

the  plains ; 
But  in  no  pyramid 

His  bones  were  hid, 

Nor  where   his   bondsmen   wept,  without    their 
chains  ! 

To  and  fro  went  Isis 

To  find  the  dead  Osiris, 
Along  her  one  great  river,  and  over  all  the  land. 

She  could  not  find  his  head, 

Nor  crown  instead, 
His  hand,  nor  the  rich  rings  were  on  his  hand ! 

The  spirit  of  Osiris 
Came  in  a  dream  to  Isis, 
Saying,  "  O  mighty  goddess !  why  is  your  heart 

so  sore  ? 
Why  do  you  weep  so,  mother  ? 

Because  my  brother, 
Typhon,  has  hid  my  body  ?     Weep  no  more. 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

"  Immortal  mother,  Isis, 
/am  thy  son  Osiris, 
Twin-born,  —  the  king  with  Typhon,  who  rules 

the  land  alone. 
His  men  have  statues  made 

Where  I  am  laid,  — 
A  piece  of  me  in  each,  —  one  by  his  throne." 

She  woke,  the  wiser  Isis, 
To  seek  and  find  Osiris, 
And  found,  as  he  had  promised,  the  idols  tall  and 

grim,— 
His  shape  in  every  place,  — 

With  Typhon's  face ! 
But  was  Osiris  there  ?  —  A  piece  of  him. 

After  her  dear  Osiris 
The  stern  and  wrathful  Isis 
Before  the   men   of  Typhon,   who   trembled   at 

her  ire, 
Strode  up  and  down  the  lands ; 

With  her  strong  hands 
Their  idols  brake,  and  cast  them  in  the  fire ! 


I2O  THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

And  now  his  mother,  Isis, 
The  limbs  of  lost  Osiris 
Found,  —  in  every  statue  of  him  some  precious 

part; 
His  head  by  Typhon's  throne ; 

Beneath  a  stone 
His  hand  ;  elsewhere,  and  last  of  all,  his  heart ! 

The  body  of  Osiris 
His  goddess-mother,  Isis, 
Laid  reverent  on  her  altar,  and  bowed  her  sacred 

head  ; 
Prayed  to  some  Power  unknown,  — 

Some  awful  Throne,  — 
Then  rose  and  kissed  the  cold  lips  of  her  dead. 

The  soul  of  great  Osiris 
Came  back  again  to  Isis  ; 
The  mouth  with  breath  is  warm,  and  dares  to 

touch  her  own  ; 
He  stretches  out  his-hands  ; 

He  stands  —  stands  ! 
He  is  himself  once  more  and  on  his  throne. 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS.  121 

"  Eternal  mother  Isis," 
Began  the  god  Osiris, 
"  Where  is  my  brother  Typhon  ?  "    And  Typhon, 

"  I  am  here." 
He  wept,  —  "  O  brother  !  brother  ! 

O  mother !  mother  !  " 
And  Isis  wept,  —  Osiris  not  a  tear ! 

"  Typhon,"  said  Osiris, 
"  And  thou,  our  mother  Isis, 
What  was  the  wrong  among  us  ?  —  but  righted  if 

it  be, 
(It  must  be,)  name  it  not,  — 

It  is  forgot 
By  Typhon  and  Osiris,  and,  mightiest  Isis,  thee ! " 


"WHY   STAND    YE    GAZING?" 


"  Why  stand  ye  gazing  up  into  heaven  ? " 

Acts  i.  n. 

\  \  THY  stand  ye  gazing  into  heaven  ? 
*  V     What  seek  ye  there  ?  what  hope  to  find 
Besides  the  clouds,  which  the  cold  wind 
Drives  round  the  world  from  morn  to  even  ? 
The  wan  moon,  ploughed  with  ancient  scars  ? 
The  gracious  sun,  the  alien  stars, 

-  The  all-embracing  Space  ? 

Ye  look  for  God  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  him  there  ? 
You,  or  your  fathers  in  their  prime  ? 
Or  any  man,  at  any  time, — 

The  wise,  the  good,  the  fair  ? 
Who  has  beheld  —  I  will  not  say  his  face, 

But  where  his  feet  have  trod  ? 
What  have  your  straining  eyes 
Discovered  in  the  skies  ? 

Why  not  look  down  the  Sea  ? 
'T  is  deep,  and  most  creative ;  what  eludes 


"WHY    STAND    YE    GAZING?" 

In  the  upper  solitudes, 
Still  lurking  in  the  lower  wastes  may  be  ! 
Ye  look  for  God,  ye  tell  me.     Tell  me  this,  — 

How  know  ye  that  He  is  ? 
Because  your  fathers  told  ye  so,  and  they 
Because,  of  old,  their  fathers  told  them  so  ; 
As  it  is  now,  so  was  it  long  ago, 
And  will  be  when  the  years  have  passed  away. 


Nothing  can  come  from  nothing.      Well,  what 

then  ? 

The  Earth,  with  all  its  men,  - 
The  little  insect  burrowing  in  the  sod,  — 
Sun,  planet,  star, 
All  things  that  are, 
Must  have  been  made  by  God  ! 
Why  made  by  Him  ?     Who  saw  them  made  ? 
Who  saw  the  deep  foundations  laid  ? 

The  Hands  that  built  the  wall  ? 

Why  made  at  all  ? 

Why  not  Eternal,  —  tell  me  ?     Not  because 
It  must  created  be  : 
If  so  Eternal  He,  — 


124  "WHY    STAND    YE   GAZING? 

But  why  Eternal  ?  —  why  not  also  This  ? 

Why  must  the  All  be  His  ? 
It  was,  and  is,  and  is,  because  it  was  ! 

There  is  no  God  then  ?     Nay, 
You  say  it,  and  not  I ; 

I  do  but  say 

We  have  not  yet  beheld  this  God  on  High : 
Not  knowing  that  He  is,  we  live  and  die  ! 
If  we  know  nothing  of  Him,  yet  we  feel. 
We  feel  love's  kisses  sweet,  — 
The  wine  that  trips  our  feet,  — 

The  murderous  thrust  of  steel :  — 
Gladness  about  the  heart  when  the  sun  breaks, 

Or  the  soft  moon  is  floating  up  the  skies, 
Delight  in  the  wild  sea,  in  tranquil  lakes, 
In  every  bird  that  flies ; 
And  hot  tears  in  our  eyes, 
When   love,  the   best   of  earth,   its   last  kiss 

over,  dies ! 
But  He  whom  we  name  God,  and  grope  so  for 

above, 

Whose  arm,  we  fear,  is  Power,  whose  heart,  we 
hope,  is  Love, 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE.  125 

On  the  worlds  below  Him, 
In  the  dust  before  Him, 
We  may  adore  Him, 

We  cannot  know  Him, 
If,  indeed,  He>-  oe,  to  bless  or  curse, 
And  be  not  this  tremendous  Universe ! 

"  Higher  than  your  arrows  fly, 

Deeper  than  your  plummets  fall, 
Is  the  Deepest,  the  Most  High, 
If  the  All  in  All!" 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 

(APRIL  23,  1564.) 

SHE  sat  in  her  eternal  house, 
The  sovereign  mother  of  mankind  ; 
Before  her  was  the  peopled  world, 
The  hollow  night  behind  ! 

"Below  my  feet  the  thunders  break, 
Above  my  head  the  stars  rejoice ; 

But  man,  although  he  babbles  much, 
Has  never  found  a  voice ! 


126  WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

"  Ten  thousand  years  have  come  and  gone, 

And  not  an  hour  of  any  day 
But  he  has  dumbly  looked  to  me 

The  things  he  could  not  say ! 

"It  shall  be  so  no  more,"  she  said. 

And  then,  revolving  in  her  mind, 
She  thought :  "I  will  create  a  child 

Shall  speak  for  all  his  kind." 

It  was  the  springtime  of  the  year, 
And  lo  !  where  Avon's  waters  flow, 

The  child,  her  darling,  came  on  earth 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky, 
No  cry,  like  Pan's,  along  the  seas, 

Nor  hovered  round  his  baby  mouth 
The  swarm  of  classic  bees  ! 

What  other  children  were,  he  was  ; 

If  more,  't  was  not  to  mortal  ken  ; 
The  being  likest  to  mankind 

Made  him  the  man  of  men  ! 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE.  I2/ 

They  gossiped,  after  he  was  dead, 

An  idle  tale  of  stealing  deer  ; 
One  thinks  he  was  a  lawyer's  clerk  ; 

But  nothing  now  is  clear, 

Save  that  he  married,  in  his  youth, 

A  maid,  his  elder ;  went  to  town  ; 
Wrote  plays  ;  made  money  ;  and  at  last 

Came  back,  and  settled  down, 

A  prosperous  man,  among  his  kin, 
In  Stratford,  where  his  bones  repose ; 

And  this  —  what  can  be  less  ?  —  is  all 
The  world  of  Shakespeare  knows ! 

It  irks  us  that  we  know  no  more,  — 
For  where  we  love,  we  would  know  all ; 

What  would  be  small  in  common  men, 
In  great  is  never  small. 

Their  daily  habits,  —  how  they  looked,  — 
The  color  of  their  eyes  and  hair, — 

Their    prayers,    their    oaths,  —  the    wine    they 

drank, — 
The  clothes  they  used  to  wear, — 


128  WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

Trifles  like  these  declare  the  men, 

And  should  survive  them,  —  nay,  they  must ; 
We  '11  find  them  somewhere  ;  if  it  needs, 

We  '11  rake  among  their  dust ! 

Not  Shakespeare's  !     He  hath  left  his  curse 
On  him  disturbs  it :  let  it  rest,  — 

The  sacredest  that  ever  Death 
Laid  in  the  earth's  dark  breast ! 

Not  to  himself  did  he  belong, 

Nor  does  his  life  belong  to  us  ; 
Enough  he  was ;  give  o'er  the  search 

If  he  were  thus,  or  thus. 

Before  he  came,  his  like  was  not, 

Nor  left  he  heirs  to  share  his  powers  ; 

The  mighty  mother  sent  him  here, 
To  be  her  voice  and  ours  ! 

To  be  her  oracle  to  man  ; 

To  be  what  man  may  be  to  her ; 
Between  the  Maker  and  the  made 

The  best  interpreter. 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

The  hearts  of  all  men  beat  in  his, 

Alike  in  pleasure  and  in  pain  ; 
And  he  contained  their  myriad  minds,  — 

Mankind  in  heart  and  brain ! 

Shakespeare  I    What  shapes  are  conjured  up 
By  that  one  word  !     They  come  and  go, 

More  real,  shadows  though  they  be, 
Than  many  a  man  we  know. 

Hamlet  the  Dane,  unhappy  Prince, 

Who  most  enjoys  when  suffering  most : 

His  soul  is  haunted  by  itself,  — 
There  needs  no  other  Ghost ! 

The  Thane,  whose  murderous  fancy  sees 

The  dagger  painted  in  the  air  ; 
The  guilty  king,  who  stands  appalled 

When  Banquo  fills  his  chair ! 

Lear  in  the  tempest,  old  and  crazed,  - 

"  Blow  winds !     Spit  fire,   singe  my   white 
head!" 

Or,  sadder,  watching  for  the  breath 
Of  dear  Cordelia,  dead  ! 


I3O  WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 

The  much-abused  relentless  Jew  ; 

Grave  Prospero,  in  his  magic  isle  ; 
And  she  who  captived  Anthony,  — 

The  serpent  of  old  Nile  ! 

Imperial  forms,  heroic  souls, 

Greek,  Roman,  —  masters  of  the  world  ; 
Kings,  queens  ;  the  soldier,  scholar,  priest ; 

The  courtier,  sleek  and  curled ;  — 

He  knew  and  drew  all  ranks  of  men, 
And  did  such  life  to  them  impart 

They  grow  not  old,  —  immortal  types, 
The  lords  of  life  and  art ! 

Their  sovereign  he,  as  she  was  his,  — 

The  awful  mother  of  the  race, 
Who,  hid  from  all  her  children's  eyes, 

Unveiled  to  him  her  face  ; 

Spake  to  him  till  her  speech  was  known, 
Through  him  till  man  had  learned  it ;  then 

Enthroned  him  in  her  heavenly  house, 
The  most  supreme  of  men  ! 


ADSUM.  i  3  r 


A  D  S  U  M  . 

(DECEMBER  23-24,  1863.) 


Angel  came  by  night, 
(Such  angels  still  come  down  !) 
And  like  a  winter  cloud 

Passed  over  London  town  ; 
Along  its  lonesome  streets, 

Where  Want  had  ceased  to  weep, 
Until  it  reached  a  house 

Where  a  great  man  lay  asleep  ;  — 
The  man  of  all  his  time 

Who  knew  the  most  of  men,  — 
The  soundest  head  and  heart, 

The  sharpest,  kindest  pen. 
It  paused  beside  his  bed, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear  ; 
He  never  turned  his  head, 

But  answered,  "  I  am  here." 


132  AD  SUM. 

II. 

Into  the  night  they  went. 

At  morning,  side  by  side, 
They  gained  the  sacred  Place 

Where  the  greatest  Dead  abide ; 
Where  grand  old  Homer  sits 

In  godlike  state  benign  ; 
\Vhere  broods  in  endless  thought 

The  awful  Florentine ; 
W7here  sweet  Cervantes  walks, 

A  smile  on  his  grave  face  ; 
Where  gossips  quaint  Montaigne, 

The  wisest  of  his  race  ; 
Where  Goethe  looks  through  all 

With  that  calm  eye  of  his  ; 
Where  —  little  seen  but  Light  — 

The  only  Shakespeare  is  ! 
When  the  new  Spirit  came, 

They  asked  him,  drawing  near, 
"  Art  thou  become  like  us  ? " 

He  answered,  "  I  am  here." 


VAXES   PATRICE.  133 


VATES   PATRLE. 

(NOVEMBER  3,  1794.) 

'  I  ^HERE  came  a  Woman  in  the  night, 
•*•     When  winds  were  whist,  and  moonlight 

smiled, 

Where  in  his  mother's  arms,  who  slept, 
There  lay  a  new-born  child. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  loving  looks, 

And  while  her  hand  upon  his  head 
She  laid,  in  blessing  and  in  power, 
In  slow,  deep  words  she  said  :  — 

"  This  child  is  mine.     Of  all  my  sons 

Are  none  like  what  the  lad  shall  be ; 
Though  these  are  wise,  and  those  are  strong, 
And  all  are  dear  to  me. 

"  Beyond  their  arts  of  peace  and  war 
The  gift  that  unto  him  belongs,  — 
To  see  my  face,  to  read  my  thoughts, 
To  learn  my  silent  songs. 


134  VAXES    PATRI/E. 

"  The  eldest  sisters  of  my  race 

Shall  taunt  no  more  that  I  am  dumb  ; 
Hereafter  I  shall  sing  through  him, 
In  ages  yet  to  come  ! " 

She  stooped,  and  kissed  his  baby  mouth, 

Whence  came  a  breath  of  melody, 
As  from  the  closed  leaves  of  a  rose 
The  murmur  of  a  bee  ! 

Thus  did  she  consecrate  the  child, 

His  more  than  mother  from  that  hour. 
Albeit  at  first  he  knew  her  not, 

Nor  guessed  his  sleeping  power. 

But  not  the  less  she  hovered  near, 

And  touched  his  spirit  unawares ; 
Burned  in  the  red  of  morning  skies, 
And  breathed  in  evening  airs. 

Unfelt  in  his,  her  guiding  hand 

Withdrew  him  from  the  halls  of  men, 
To  where  her  secret  bowers  were  built, 
In  wood  and  grove  and  glen. 


VATES    PATRICE.  135 

Sometimes  he  caught  a  transient  glimpse 

Of  her  broad  robe,  that  swept  before, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  ancient  woods, 
Or  by  the  sounding  shore. 

One  prosperous  day  he  chanced  to  see 

(Be  sure  't  was  in  a  lonely  place) 
Her  glance  of  pride,  that  sought  his  own, 
At  last  her  noble  face ! 

Not  as  it  fronts  her  children  now, 

With  clouded  brows,  and  looks  of  ire, 
And  eyes  that  would  be  blind  with  tears 
But  for  their  quenchless  fire ! 

But  happy,  gracious,  beautiful, 

And  more  imperial  than  a  queen ; 
A  woman  of  majestic  mould, 
And  most  maternal  mien. 

And  he  was  happy.     For  in  her 

("  For  he,"  she  said,  "  shall  read  my  mind  ") 
He  saw  the  glory  of  the  earth, 
The  hope  of  human  kind. 


136  VATES    PATRICE. 

Thenceforth,  wherever  he  might  walk, 
Through  forest  aisles,  or  by  the  sea ; 
Where  floats  the  flower-like  butterfly, 
And  hums  the  drowsy  bee  ; 

By  rock-ribbed  hills,  and  pensive  vales 

That  stretch  in  shade  between  ; 
And  by  the  soft-complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green,  — 

He  felt  her  presence  everywhere, 

To-day  was  glad,  to-morrow  grave  ; 
And  what  she  gave  to  him  in  thought, 
To  us  in  song  he  gave : 

In  stately  songs,  in  solemn  hymns 

(Few  are  so  clear,  and  none  so  high), 
That  mirrored  her,  in  calm  and  storm, 
As  mountain  lakes  the  sky. 

And  evermore  one  shape  appeared, 

To  comfort  now,  and  now  command,  • 
A  bearded  man,  with  many  scars, 
Who  bore  a  battle-brand  ! 


VATES    PATRLE.  137 

And  she  was  filled  with  serious  joy, 
To  know  her  poet  followed  him  ; 
Not  losing  heart,  nor  bating  hope, 
When  others'  faith  was  dim. 

And  as  the  years  went  slowly  by, 

And  she  grew  stronger  and  more  wise, 
Stretching  her  hands  o'er  broader  lands, 
And  grander  destinies ; 

And  he,  our  poet,  poured  his  hymns, 
Serene,  prophetic,  sad,  —  as  each 
Became  a  part  of  her  renown, 
And  of  his  native  speech  ; 

She  wove,  by  turns,  a  wreath  for  him,  — 

The  business  of  her  idle  hours  ; 
And  here  were  sprigs  of  mountain  pine, 
And  there  were  prairie  flowers. 

And  now,  even  in  her  sorest  need, 

Pale,  bleeding,  faint  in  every  limb, 
She  still  remembers  what  he  is, 
And  comes  to  honor  him. 


138  AT    GADSHILL. 

For  hers,  not  ours,  the  songs  we  bring,  — 

The  flowers,  the  music,  and  the  light ; 
And  't  is  her  hand  that  lays  the  wreath 
On  his  gray  head  to-night ! 


AT   GADSHILL. 

(JUNE  9,  1870.) 

ADSHILL  is  famous.     What  of  old 

To  the  world's  poet  made  it  dear, 
Whether  what  country  gossips  told, 

Or  stolen  hours  of  cheer 
Spent  there  with  men  of  kindred  mind, 
Less,  yet  the  largest  of  mankind,  — 

We  know  not,  and  we  need  not  care : 

Enough  that  Shakespeare  loved  the  place, 

And  settled  in  possession  there 
The  merriest  of  his  race, — 

Falstaff,  —  whose  thirsty  spirit  still 

Haunts  all  the  taverns  at  Gadshill ! 


AT    GADSHILL.  139 

Could  Shakespeare,  with  prophetic  eyes, 
Who  were  to  follow  him  have  seen, 

And  be,  if  not  so  great  and  wise,  — 
As  what  man  since  hath  been  ?  — 

Yet  wise  and"  great  in  smaller  ways, 

The  lords  of  life  of  coming  days, 

He  would  have  chosen  out  of  all 
Dickens,  as  knowing,  loving  men, 

And  let  on  him  the  mantle  fall 
That  was  to  vanish  then ! 

Long  lost,  late  found,  now  lost  once  more,  — 

Ah !  who  that  mantle  shall  restore  ? 

Sacred  to  all  but  Shakespeare's  shade, 
And  to  his  ghosts  of  crownless  kings 

Abandoned,  wretched  queens  betrayed, 
And  high,  heroic  things, 

Is  Stratford  ;  let  no  mortal  dare 

Disturb  its  hushed  and  reverent  air ! 

But  Gadshill,  whither  Falstaff  went 
From  Eastcheap  (glad  to  hasten  back), 


I4O  AT    GADSHILL. 

Though  plundered,  still  on  plunder  bent, 

Puffed  out  with  lies  and  sack,  — 
What  spot  of  English  earth  so  fit 
For  one  with  more  than  Falstaff 's  wit  ? 

Nay,  Shakespeare's  self  was  not  his  peer 
In  that  humane  and  happy  art 

To  wake  at  once  the  smile  and  tear, 
And  captive  hold  the  heart ! 

Make  room,  then,  Shakespeare :  this  is  he 

Has  taken  the  throne  of  mirth  from  thee. 

The  world  of  kings  and  queens  is  thine  ; 

Thou  hast  the  soldier's,  scholar's  ear ; 
England  and  Rome,  Greece,  "  Troy  divine," 

Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear: 
Small  elves  that  dance  on  yellow  sands, 
And  all  the  spells  of  fairy  lands  ! 

This  common  work-day  world  of  ours  ; 

Our  little  lives  of  joy  and  care  ; 
Green  lanes,  where  children  gather  flowers ; 

And  London's  murky  air ; 
Thieves,  paupers,  women  of  the  town, 
And  the  black  Thames  in  which  they  drown  ; 


AT   GADSHILL. 

These  were  the  things  that  Dickens  knew ; 

Before  his  sight  like  dreams  they  passed. 
If  saddened,  he  was  gladdened  too, 

For  sorrow  should  not  last. 
Happy  must  t?e  his  heart  and  mind 
Whose  task  it  is  to  help  his  kind ! 

Healthy  his  nature  was,  above 

All  shallow  griefs  and  sympathies ; 

What  others  hated  he  could  love, 
And  what  they  loved  despise. 

His  mirth  was  harder  to  be  borne 

Than  Thackeray's  sadness,  Byron's  scorn. 

He  taught  the  virtues,  first  and  last ; 

He  taught  us  manhood  more  and  more ; 
The  simple  courage  that  stands  fast, 

The  patience  of  the  poor  ; 
Love  for  all  creatures,  great  and  small, 
And  trust  in  Something  over  all ! 

This  gave  him  more  than  royal  sway ; 
The  benefactor  of  the  race, 


142  TWILIGHT   ON    SUMTER. 

He  would  have  wiped  with  smiles  away 

The  tears  from  every  face ! 
They  drop  to-day  from  many  an  eye ; 
He  draws  them,  but  he  cannot  dry ! 

The  hand  is  still  that  held  his  pen, 
Hi-s  eyes  are  shut,  but  not  in  sleep ; 

Weeping  around  his  bed  are  men 
Who  do  not  often  weep ! 

Laughter  no  more  the  house  shall  fill, 

For  Death  is  master  at  Gadshill ! 


TWILIGHT   ON   SUMTER. 

(AUGUST  24,  1863.) 

OTILL  and  dark  along  the  sea 
^  Sumter  lay : 

A  light  was  overhead, 
As  from  burning  cities  shed, 
And  the  clouds  were  battle-red, 
Far  away. 


TWILIGHT    ON   SUMTER.  143 

Not  a  solitary  gun 

Left  to  tell  the  fort  had  won, 

Or  lost  the  day  ! 
Nothing  but  the  tattered  rag 
Of  the  drpoping  Rebel  flag, 
And  the  sea-birds  screaming  round  it  in  their  play. 

How  it  woke  one  April  morn, 
Fame  shall  tell ; 

As  from  Moultrie,  close  at  hand, 
And  the  batteries  on  the  land, 
Round  its  faint  but  fearless  band 

Shot  and  shell 

Raining  hid  the  doubtful  light ; 
But  they  fought  the  hopeless  fight 

Long  and  well, 

(Theirs  the  glory,  ours  the  shame  ! ) 
Till  the  walls  were  wrapt  in  flame, 
Then  their  flag  was  proudly  struck,  and  Sumter 
fell! 

Now  — O  look  at  Sumter  now, 

In  the  gloom ! 
Mark  its  scarred  and  shattered  walls, 


144  A    CHRISTMAS    HYMN    FOR    AMERICA. 

(Hark  !  the  ruined  rampart  falls  ! ) 
There  's  a  justice  that  appalls 

In  its  doom ; 

For  this  blasted  spot  of  earth 
Where  Rebellion  had  its  birth 

Is  its  tomb ! 

And  when  Sumter  sinks  at  last 
From  the  heavens,  that  shrink  aghast, 
Hell  shall'rise  in  grim  derision  and  make  room ! 


A   CHRISTMAS  HYMN  FOR  AMERICA. 


N 


OT  as  of  old  we  keep  the  day 

Whereon  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born, 
Whose  kingdom  comes  not !     Let  us  pray 

It  comes  this  holy  morn  : 
Let  us  begin  it ;  make  our  brawlings  cease, 
And  kill  the  hate  that  lurks  behind  the  mask  of 
Peace ! 


A    CHRISTMAS    HYMN    FOR   AMERICA.          145 

Men  of  the  South,  if  you  recall 

The  fields  your  valor  won  in  vain, 
Unchecked  the  manly  tears  may  fall 

Above  your  heroes  slain  ! 
Weep  !  but  remember  we  had  heroes  too, 
As  sadly  dear  to  us  as  yours  can  be  to  you  ! 

Men  of  the  North,  whose  sons  and  sires, 

Victorious  in  a  hundred  fights, 
Gather  no  more  about  your  fires 

In  the  long  winter  nights  ; 
If  some   you   loved   are   missing   here   and 

there, 

No  household  at  the  South  but  mourns  its  vacant 
chair ! 

By  all  the  blood  that  has  been  shed, 
And  will  be  till  contentions  cease, 
Bury  your  anger  with  the  dead, 

And  Be  again  at  peace  ! 
So,  with  your  muskets  rusting  on  the  wall, 
Your  State  shall  be  secure  when  greatest  empires 
fall! 


10 


146  THE    COUNTRY    LIFE. 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE. 

"XT  OT  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must, 
•*•  ^    Makes  up  the  sum  of  living  ; 
Heaven  is  both  more  and  less  than  just 

In  -taking  and  in  giving. 

Swords  cleave  to  hands  that  sought  the  plough, 
And  laurels  miss  the  soldier's  brow. 

Me,  whom  the  city  holds,  whose  feet 

Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 
Familiar  with  its  loneliest  street,  — 

Its  ways  were  never  my  ways. 
My  cradle  was  beside  the  sea, 
And  there,  I  hope,  my  grave  will  be. 

Old  homestead  !  —  in  that  old,  gray  town, 

Thy  vane  is  seaward  blowing ; 
Thy  slip  of  garden  stretches  down 

To  where  the  tide  is  flowing : 
Below  they  lie,  their  sails  all  furled, 
The  ships  that  go  about  the  world. 


THE    COUNTRY    LIFE.  147 

Dearer  that  little  country  house, 

Inland,  with  pines  beside  it ; 
Some  peach-trees,  with  unfruitful  boughs, 

A  well,  with  weeds  to  hide  it : 
No  flowers,  or^only  such  as  rise 
Self-sown,  —  poor  things  !  —  which  all  despise. 

Dear  country  home  !  can  I  forget 

The  least  of  thy  sweet  trifles  ? 
The  window-vines  that  clamber  yet, 

Whose  blooms  the  bee  still  rifles  ? 
The  roadside  blackberries,  growing  ripe, 
And  in  the  woods  the  Indian  Pipe  ? 

Happy  the  man  who  tills  his  field, 

Content  with  rustic  labor  ; 
Earth  does  to  him  her  fulness  yield, 

Hap  what  may  to  his  neighbor. 
Well  days,  sound  nights,  —  oh  !  can  there  be 
A  life  more  rational  and  free  ? 

Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man  ! 

For  both  the  best,  the  strongest, 
That  with  the  earliest  race  began, 

And  hast  outlived  the  longest : 


148  AN    INVOCATION. 

Their  cities  perished  long  ago  ; 
Who  the  first  farmers  were  we  know. 


Perhaps  our  Babels  too  will  fall ; 

If  so,  no  lamentations, 
For  Mother  Earth  will  shelter  all, 

And  feed  the  unborn  nations  ! 
Yes,  and  the  swords  that  menace  now 
Will  then  be  beaten  to  the  plough. 


AN   INVOCATION, 
i. 

BEFORE   THE   SHRINE. 

WHAT  and  whence  this  life  of  ours? 
Is  it  Life,  and  Death  at  last  ? 
Or  a  dream  that  binds  us  fast 
In  the  heavy  midnight  hours  ? 
Shadow  of  a  vanished  day, 
Or  a  coming,  gone  astray 


AN    INVOCATION.  149 

9 

In  the  sleep  of  the  High  Powers  ? 
Great  Ones  !  —  surely,  such  ye  be, 
Hear,  and,  hearing,  answer  me ! 
Answer  me,  O  answer  me  ! 

[  Wide  their  lips  were,  and  their  eyes, 
TJiat  benignant  looked,  and  wise  ; 
But,  false  or  true,  no  answer  fell : 
Silent  was  the  Oracle^ 

ii. 

BEFORE   THE   STATUE   OF   ISIS. 

AND  this  dread  thing  which  men  call  Death  ? 

Like  but  longer  than  all  Sleep,  — 

Shrouded  eyes,  that  fail  to  weep,  — 
Lips  that  kiss  not,  without  breath,  — 

Feet  that  run  no  more  to  ill,  — 

Hands  that  nor  caress,  nor  kill ! 

Tell  me,  is  it  something  done  ? 

Or,  sadder,  something  more  begun  ? 
Give  me  what  the  Goddess  saith, 
Powerful  over  Life  and  Death. 
Life  and  Death,  O  Life  and  Death  ! 


I5O  A    CATCH. 

• 

{Mighty  did  the  Mother  stand, 
With  her  foot  on  sea  and  land,  — 
Brow  uplifted  to  tJie  skies \ 
Wit! i  their  secret  in  her  eyes. 
What  she  saw  and  said  that  day, 
None  of  her  pale  priests  could  say  : 
They  lay  like  dead  men.     If  there  fell 
Answer  from  her  lips,  'twas  well: 
But  what  it  was  no  tongue  can  tell.} 


A   CATCH. 

{Sung  by  the  Clown  in  the  Interlude  of11  No  Fool  like  an  Old  Fool. 

NCE  the  head  is  gray 


o 


And  the  heart  is  dead, 
There  's  no  more  to  do : 
Make  the  man  a  bed 
Six  foot  under  ground, 
There  he  '11  slumber  sound. 

Golden  was  my  hair, 
And  my  heart  did  beat 


A    CATCH. 

To  the  viol's  voice 

Like  the  dancers'  feet. 
Not  colder  now  his  blood 
Who  died  before  the  flood. 

Fair,  and  fond,  and  false, 
Mother,  wife,  and  maid  < 

Never  lived  a  man 

They  have  not  betrayed  ! 

None  shall  'scape  my  mirth 

But  old  Mother  Earth. 

Safely  housed  with  her, 

With  no  company 
But  my  brother  Worm, 

Who  will  feed  on  me, 
I  shall  slumber  sound, 
Deep  down  under  ground. 


152  THE   KING   IS    COLD. 


THE   KING   IS   COLD, 
i. 

RAKE  the  embers,  blow  the  coals, 
Kindle  at  once  a  roaring  fire : 
Here  's  some  paper,  —  't  is  nothing,  Sire  ; 
Light  it,  (they  Ve  saved  a  thousand  souls  ! ) 
Run  for  fagots,  you  scurvy  knaves, 

There  are  plenty  out  in  the  public  square, 
You  know  they  fry  the  heretics  there, 
(But  God  remembers  their  nameless  graves  !) 
Fly,  fly  !  or  the  King  may  die  ! 

Ugh  !  his  royal  feet  are  like  snow, 
And  the  cold  is  mounting  up  to  his  heart, 

(But  -that  was  frozen  long  ago  ! ) 
Rascals,  varlets,  do  as  you  're  told, — 
The  King  is  cold  ! 

ii. 
His  bed  of  state  is  a  grand  affair, 

With  sheets  of  satin  and  pillows  of  down, 
And  close  beside  it  stands  the  crown  ; 


•  THE    KING    IS    COLD.  153 

But  that  won't  keep  him  from  dying  there ! 
His  hands  are  wrinkled,  his  hair  is  gray, 

And  his  ancient  blood  is  sluggish  and  thin  ; 

When  he  was  young  it  was  hot  with  sin, 
But  that  is  over  this  many  a  day ! 
Under  these  sheets  of  satin  and  lace 

He  slept  in  the  arms  of  his  concubines ; 
Now  they  rouse  with  the  Prince  instead, 

Drinking  the  maddest,  merriest  wines. 
It 's  pleasant  to  hear  such  catches  trolled, 
Now  the  King  is  cold ! 

in. 

What  shall  I  do  with  his  Majesty  now  ? 

For,  thanks  to  my  potion,  the  man  is  dead  : 
Suppose  I  bolster  him  up  in  bed, 

And  fix  the  crown  again  on  his  brow  ? 

That  would  be  merry  !  —  but  then  the  Prince 
Would  tumble  it  down,  I  know,  in  a  trice : 
'T  would  puzzle  the  Devil  to  name  a  vice 

That  would  make  his  excellent  Highness  wince  ! 

But  hark  !  he's  coming,  —  I  know  his  step  : 

He  's  stealing  to" see  if  his  wishes  are  true  : 


154  THE    MESSENGER   AT    NIGHT. 

Ah,  Sire,  may  your  father's  end  be  yours  ! 

(With  just  such  a  son  to  murder  you  !) 
Peace  to  the  dead !     Let  the  bells  be  tolled, 
The  King  is  cold  ! 


THE   MESSENGER  AT   NIGHT. 

A     FACE  at  the  window, 
•**•     A  tap  on  the  pane  : 
Who  is  it  that  wants  me 
To-night  in  the  rain  ? 

I  have  lighted  my  chamber, 
And  brought  out  my  wine, 

For  a  score  of  good  fellows 
Were  coming  to  dine. 

The  dastards  have  failed  me, 

And  sent  in  the  rain 
The  man  at  the  window, 

To  tap  on  the  pane ! 


OUT   TO    SEA.  155 

I  hear  the  rain  patter, 

I  hear  the  wind  blow  ; 
I  hate  the  wild  weather, 

And  yet  I  must  go ! 

I  could  moan  like  the  wind  now, 

And  weep  like  the  rain, 
But  the  Thing  at  the  window 

Is  tapping  again ! 

It  beckons,  I  follow. 

Good  by  to  the  light ! 
I  am  going,  oh  !  whither  ? 

Out  into  the  night ! 


OUT  TO   SEA. 

wind  is  blowing  east, 
-*•       And  the  waves  are  running  free  ; 
Let 's  hoist  the  sail  at  once, 
And  stand  out  to  sea, 
(You  and  me !) 


1 56  OUT   TO    SEA. 

I  am  growing  more  and  more 
A-weary  of  the  shore  ; 
It  was~  never  so  before,  — 
Out  to  sea ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  east, 

How  it  swells  the  straining  sail ! 
A  little  farther  out 

We  shall  have  a  jolly  gale  ! 

(Cling  to  me!) 
The  waves  are  running  high, 
And  the  gulls,  how  they  fly  ! 
We  shall  only  see  the  sky 
Out  to  sea ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  east 

From  the  dark  and  bloody  shore, 
Where  flash  a  million  swords, 
And  the  dreadful  cannon  roar ! 

(Woe  is  me  ! ) 

There  's  a  curse  upon  the  land  ! 
(Is  that  blood  upon  my  hand  ?) 
What  can  we  do  but  stand 
Out  to  sea  ? 


A    GREEK   SONG.  157 


A   GREEK   SONG. 

y\EMETRIUS  to  his  men, 
-*-^    In  the  sun's  setting  light : 
"  Go,  brave  ones,  to  the  water, 
And  eat  your  bread  to-night. 

"But  nephew  dear,  Lamprakes, 

Come  sit  beside  me  here  ; 
Gird  on  my  arms  and  use  them, 

No  kin  of  mine  should  fear. 

"  Come,  take  my  sword,  brave  comrades, 

(I  think  ye  find  it  red!) 
And  cut  me  down  green  branches, 

And  spread  them  for  my  bed. 

"Fetch  a  priest  to  confess  me 

While  I  am  still  alive. 
Thirty  years  a  soldier, 

A  robber  twenty-five. 


158 


"But  now  I  feel  death  coming, 
And  I  must  shortly  die ; 

Make  wide  my  tomb,  remember, 
And  let  its  roof  be  high. 

"Give  me  room  to  load  my  musket, 
And  stand  erect  to  fight : 

Be  sure  you  leave  a  window, 
And  leave  it  on  the  right, 

"  To  entice  the  merry  swallows 
To  bring  the  spring  that  way, 

And  the  nightingale  to  warble 
In  the  good  month  of  May  !  " 


\  X  7ANDERING  along  a  waste 
*  *      Where  once  a  city  stood, 
I  saw  a  ruined  tomb, 
And  in  that  tomb  an  urn, — 


"WANDERING    ALONG    A    WASTE."  159 

A  sacred  funeral  urn, 
Without  a  name  or  date, 

And  in  its  hollow  depths 

A  little  human  dust ! 

"Whose  dust  is  this,"  I  asked, 
"  In  this  forgotten  urn  ? 

And  where  this  waste  now  lies 

What  city  rose  of  old  ?  " 

None  knows  ;  its  name  is  lost ; 
It  was,  and  is  no  more ; 

Gone  like  a  wind  that  blew 

A  thousand  years  ago  ! 

Its  melancholy  end 
Will  be  the  end  of  all ; 

For,  as  it  passed  away, 

The  Universe  will  pass  ! 

Its  sole  memorial 

Some  ruined  world  like  ours  ; 

A  solitary  urn, 

Full  of  the  dust  of  men  ! 


I6O  LOVE   THY   NEIGHBOR. 


L' 


LOVE   THY  NEIGHBOR. 

OVE  thy  neighbor  as  thyself.' 
When  at  dawn  I  meet  her, 
As  by  the  garden  wall  she  stands, 

And  gives  me  flowers  across  the  wall, 
My  heart  goes  out  to  kiss  her  hands,  — 

Are  hands  or  flowers  the  sweeter  ? 
I  'm  ready  at  her  feet  to  fall, 

And  like  a  clown  to  labor ! 
Better  than  I  love  myself 

Do  I  love  my  neighbor ! " 

" '  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself/ 

When  at  dawn  I  meet  him, 
As  by  the  garden  wall  he  stands, 

And  takes  my  flowers  across  the  wall, 
My  soul 's  already  in  his  hands,  — 

It  flew  so  fast  to  greet  him ! 
And  O,  I  grow  so  proud  and  tall, 

And  my  heart  beats  like  a  tabor ! 
Better  than  I  love  myself 

Do  I  love  my  neighbor  !  " 


WHAT'S  MY  LOVE  LIKE?  161 


WHAT'S   MY   LOVE   LIKE? 

r  I  ^ELL  me,  •'what  's  my  love  like  ? 

*•    A  lily  of  the  May, 
That  does  not  shun  the  kissing  sun, 
Yet  keeps  its  dew  all  day  ? 

Yes,  and  no ; 
Fond  is  she,  and  coy  is  she, 

But  —  whisper  low  — 
She  is  more  than  this  to  me, 
So,  no  lily  shall  she  be. 

But  tell  me,  what 's  my  love  like  ? 

A  little,  cooing  dove, 
Who  feels  your  breast  her  safest  nest,  — 
A  thing  of  fear  and  love  ? 

Yes,  and  no  ; 
Timid  she,  and  tender  she, 

But  —  whisper  low  — 
She  is  more  than  this  to  me, 
So,  no  dove  my  love  shall  be. 
n 


1 62  HEAD    OR   HEART  ? 

O  tell  me,  what 's  my  love  like  ? 

Perhaps  a  pearl  of  girls, 
For  whose  sweet  face  the  king  would  place 
His  crown  upon  her  curls  ? 

Yes,  and  no ; 
Worthy  of  a  king  is  she, 

But  —  whisper  low  — 
She  is  more,  and  is  for  me, 
So,  no  queen  my  dear  will  be. 


HEAD    OR    HEART? 

THE  loving  songs  you  sing  to  me 
With  such  a  subtile  art, 
My  poet,  are  they  from  the  head, 
Or  are  they  from  the  heart  ? 

"  From  somewhere  in  the  skies,  — 

It  may  be  near,  or  far, 

From  cloud,  or  moon,  or  star,  — 
A  misty  Spirit  flies, 

When  summer  nights  are  deep, 

And  all  are  fast  asleep,  — 


HEAD    OR    HEART?  163 

The  Spirit  of  whom  the  flowers, 

In  the  long,  dim  hours, 
Dream,  with  their  lips  apart,  — 
Who  gives,  as  he  goes, 
To  lily-- and  rose 

With  rapture  dumb, 
A  kiss,  that  slips  in  the  heart, 
Where,  when  the  morn  is  come, 

We  find  it  as  dew,  — 
Pure,  perfect,  divine ! 
Such  are  these  songs  of  mine." 

Not  from  your  heart,  then,  as  you  said, 
False  one  !  your  songs,  but  from  your  head. 

*  Deep  down  beneath  the  sea, 

Whose  dreadful  waves  are  whirled 
About  the  roots  of  the  world, 

Where  death  and  darkness  be, 

A  little  creature  lurks, 

Who  upwards  works,  and  works  ; 
Thorough  the  waters  vast, 
Thorough  the  waters  green, 


164  DRIFTING. 

Up,  up,  until  at  last 

The  light  of  day  is  seen,  — 
When  lo !  it  has  builded  an  isle 

Above  the  seas, 
Whereon  the  heavens  smile, 

And  summer  the  whole  year  through 

Hangs  fruit  on  the  trees, 
And  the  isle  is  one  great  vine ! 
Such  are  these  songs  of  mine." 

And  if  your  songs,  so  fine  your  art, 
Are  from  the  head,  and  from  the  heart, 

I  wonder  now  whence  this  is  ? 

You  answer  me  with  kisses  ! 


DRIFTING. 

\  X  7  ELL,  summer  at  last  is  over, 

Gone  like  a  long,  sweet  dream, 
And  I  am  slowly  waking, 
As  I  drift  along  the  stream. 


DRIFTING.  165 

This  do  Ice  far  niente 

Has  been  too  much  for  me ; 
Nothing  done  on  my  picture, 

Except  that  doubtful  tree  ! 

•P 

I  went  to  the  glen  with  Gervase, 

And  sketched  one  afternoon, 
And  would  have  made  sunset  studies 

But  for  the  witching  moon ! 

The  moon  did  all  the  mischief. 

The  moment  I  see  it  shine, 
With  a  pretty  woman  beside  me, 

My  heart 's  no  longer  mine  ! 

But  have  I  really  lost  it  ? 

Or  has  it  slipped  away, 
Like  a  child  beguiled  by  summer, 

Who  will  come  home  tired  with  play  ? 

I  wonder  if  I  am  feeling 

The  passion  of  my  life  ? 
Do  I  love  that  woman,  Alice, 

Enough  to  call  her  wife  ? 


1 66  DRIFTING. 

I  think  so,  but  I  know  not ; 

I  only  know  't  is  sweet 
To  lie,  as  I  am  lying, 

In  sunset,  at  her  feet ; 

Watching  her  face,  as,  thoughtful, 
She  leans  upon  her  hand, 

(Is  it  herself  or  me,  now, 
She  seeks  to  understand  ? ) 

While  overhead  the  swallows 
Fly  home,  with  twittering  cries, 

And  through  the  distant  tree-tops 
The  moon  begins  to  rise. 

—  If  we  could  only  stay  so, 
In  such  a  happy  dream, 

I  would  not  for  worlds  awaken,  — 
But  drift  along  with  the  stream  ! 


THE    PROUD    LOVER. 


THE    PROUD   LOVER. 

T  NEVER  yet  could  understand 
•*-  How  men  could  love  in  vain  ; 
I  hold  it  weak  and  wrong  to  love, 

And  not  be  loved  again. 
For  me,  I  must  have  heart  for  heart, 
Deny  me  that,  and  we  must  part. 

There  be  who  love,  or  think  they  love, 

Without  return  for  years  ; 
They  waste  their  days  in  fruitless  sighs, 

Their  nights  in  hopeless  tears. 
Not  such  am  I :  my  heart  is  free, 
I  love  not  her  who  loves  not  me ! 


T  KNOW  a  little  rose, 
-1      And  O  but  I  were  blest 
Could  I  but  be  the  drop  of  dew 
That  lies  upon  her  breast ! 


1 68  THE   DYING   LOVER. 

But  I  dare  not  look  so  high, 
Nor  die  a  death  so  sweet ; 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  be 
The  dust  about  her  feet ! 


THE  DYING   LOVER. 

'THHE  grass  that  is  under  me  now 

•*•     Will  soon  be  over  me,  sweet ! 
When  you  walk  this  way  again 
I  shall  not  hear  your  feet. 

You  may  walk  this  way  again, 
And  shed  your  tears  like  dew ; 

They  will  be  no  more  to  me,  then, 
Than  mine  are  now  to  you ! 


UNDER   THE    ROSE.  169 


UNDER   THE   ROSE. 

HE  wears  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
At  th£  twilight's  dreamy  close 
Her  face  is  fair,  how  fair 
Under  the  rose ! 

I  steal  like  a  shadow  there, 

As  she  sits  in  rapt  repose, 

And  whisper  my  loving  prayer 

Under  the  rose ! 

She  takes  the  rose  from  her  hair, 
And  her  color  comes  and  goes, 
And  I  —  a  lover  will  dare 
Under  the  rose ! 


EVEN-SONG. 


EVEN-SONG. 

YOU  must  have  an  even-song? 
You  must  try  to  make  it,  then, 
For  to-night  my  thoughts  are  dumb ; 
Not  a  tuneful  word  will  come 
From  my  tongue,  or  from  my  pen. 
'T  is  the  hour  when  all  things  sleep, 
And  the  flowers  are  steeped  in  dew  ; 
Thoughts  are  deep,  but  words  are  few, 
For,  like  thought,  they  lie  too  deep. 
Silence  suits  the  season  best ; 
Birds  are  silent  in  the  nest ; 
Hearken  !  not  a  note  is  heard 
From  the  throat  of  any  bird 
Save  the  distant  nightingale, 
And  her  music  is  a  wail ! 
Better  silence  till  the  morrow 
Than  that  mighty  dirge  of  sorrow  ! 
Let  our  singing,  then,  go  by, 
Since  the  prelude  is  a  sigh  ; 
Yet,  since  you  have  waited  long, 
Take  this  kiss  for  even-song ! 


UNDER   THE    TREES.  1/1 


UNDER   THE   TREES. 

\  y£  7  HEN  the  summer  days  are  bright  and  long, 

*  *      And  the  little  birds  pipe  a  merry  song, 
'T  is  sweet  in  the  shady  woods  to  lie, 
And  gaze  at  the  leaves  and  the  twinkling  sky, 
Drinking  the  while  the  rare,  cool  breeze, 
Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees ! 

When  winter  comes,  and  the  days  are  dim, 
And  the  wind  is  singing  a  mournful  hymn, 
'T  is  sweet  in  the  faded  woods  to  stray, 
And  tread  the  dead  leaves  into  the  clay, 
Thinking  of  all  life's  mysteries 
Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees ! 

Summer  or  winter,  day  or  night, 

The  woods  are  an  ever-new  delight ; 

They  give  us  peace,  and  they  make  us  strong, — 

Such  wonderful  balms  to  them  belong : 

So,  living  or  dying,  I  '11  take  mine  ease 

Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees ! 


1/2  A   BEGGAR   SONG. 


A  BEGGAR   SONG. 

T    AM  a  ragged  beggar 
-••    My  heart  is  bold  and  light ; 
I  live  upon  the  highway, 
And  sleep  in  barns  at  night. 

I  eat  behind  the  hedges 

My  scraps  of  bread  and  meat, 
And  drink,  when  very  thirsty, 

The  water  at  my  feet 

But,  money  in  my  pocket, 
And  none  to  tell  the  tale, 

I  hie  me  to  the  alehouse, 
And  drink  my  fill  of  ale  ! 

I  frown  upon  the  tapsters, 
I  laugh  and  shout  and  sing; 

For,  give  a  beggar  money, 
He 's  mighty  as  a  king  ! 


BIRDS.  173 


BIRDS. 


IF  I  could  be  a  bird, 
I  know  the  bird  I  'd  be,- 
An  eagle  on  the  mountains, 
A  petrel  on  the  sea ! 

The  petrel  dares  the  waves, 
The  eagle  dares  the  wind 

Their  bravery  and  danger 
Suit  my  stormy  mind  ! 


T    AM  dreary  and  gray, 
-*-    And  my  thoughts  fly  away, 
Like  a  long  flight  of  cranes, 
In  a  dark  autumn  day  ! 

They  may  go  till  they  find 
The  warm  sunshine  and  wind, 
But  the  autumn  remains, 
And  my  darkness  of  mind  ! 


174 


LEAVES. 


I 


T  is  a  winter  night, 

And  the  stilly  earth  is  white 
With  the  blowing  of  the  lilies  of  the  snow  ! 
Once  it  was  as  red 
With  the  roses  summer  shed, 
But  the  roses  fled  with  summer  long  ago ! 

We  sang  a  merry  tune, 

In  the  jolly  days  of  June, 
And  we  danced  adown  the  garden  in  the  light 

Now  December  's  come, 

And  our  hearts  are  dark  and  dumb, 
As  we  huddle  o'er  the  embers  here  to-night ! 


LEAVES. 


T  T  7" HAT  is  life,  and  what  are  we? 

*  *      Only  leaves  upon  a  tree, 
Green  to-day,  to-morrow  sear, 
Then  we  are  no  longer  here ! 


COURAGE   AND    PATIENCE. 

Others,  fair  and  brave  as  we, 
Grew,  of  old,  upon  the  tree  ; 
Now  they  crumble  in  the  mould, 
With  their  histories  untold. 

So  shall  we  :  it  is  our  lot 
Thus  to  die  and  be  forgot ; 
By  and  by  the  tree  will  fall, 
One  oblivion  waits  for  all. 


COURAGE  AND   PATIENCE. 

IFE  is  sad,  because  we  know  it, 
-*— '  Death,  because  we  know  it  not ; 
But  we  will  not  fret  or  murmur,  — 

Every  man  must  bear  his  lot. 
Coward  hearts,  who  shrink  and  fly, 
Are  not  fit  to  live  or  die ! 

Knowing  life,  we  should  not  fear  it, 
Neither  death,  for  that 's  unknown  ; 

Courage,  patience,  —  these  are  virtues 
Which  for  many  sins  atone. 

Who  has  these  —  and  have  not  I  ?  — 

He  is  fit  to  live  and  die ! 


176  "WHAT  SHALL  i  DO  TO  LIVE  ARIGHT?" 


WHAT  shall  I  do  to  live  aright  ? 
My  life  is  wrong,  I  feel  it  so ; 
I  bear  about  a  muffled  woe, 
I  perish  with  a  nameless  blight. 

When  I  was  young  I  suffered  more, 
But  I  was  happier,  wiser  then  ;  - 
I  lived  my  life  like  other  men, 

I  bore  the  burdens  that  they  bore. 

There  was  a  sweetness  then  in  tears, 
There  was  a  bitterness  in  pain  ; 
Nor  sweet  nor  bitter  now  remain, 

They  perished  with  my  early  years. 

I  lived,  I  knew  not  how ;  but  now 
I  know  too  well  the  way  I  live  ; 
But  what  does  all  my  knowledge  give  ? 

A  hollow  heart,  an  aching  brow. 

This  is  my  sorrow  day  and  night, 
The  secret  of  my  troubled  song, 
"  My  life  is  wrong  !     My  life  is  wrong  ; 

What  shall  I  do  to  make  it'  right  ? " 


TO   BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


TO   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

u* 

ON  HIS  FORTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

"  \  \  THOM  the  gods  love  die  young,"  we  have 
^  *        been  told, 

And  wise  of  some  the  saying  seems  to  be, 
Of  others  foolish  ;  as  it  is  of  thee, 
Who  proven  hast  whom  the  gods  love  live  old. 
For  have  not  forty  seasons  o'er  thee  rolled, 
The  worst  propitious,  —  setting  like  a  sea 
Toward  the  haven  of  prosperity, 
Now  full  in  sight,  so  fair  the  wind  doth  hold  ? 
Hast  thou  not  Fame,  the  poet's  chief  desire  ; 
A  wife  whom  thou  dost  love,  who  loves  thee 

well  ; 
A   child   in   whom    your    differing   natures 

blend  ; 

And  friends,  troops  of  them,  who  respect,  admire  ? 
(How  deeply  one,  it  suits  not  now  to  tell,) 
Such  lives  are  long,  and  have  a  perfect  end. 
12 


178  TO   EDMUND    CLARENCE    STEDMAN. 


TO   EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN. 

(WITH  SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS.) 

T_T  AD  we  been  living  in  the  antique  days, 
-*•  *•    With  him,  whose  young  but  cunning  fin 
gers  penned 
These   sugared    sonnets   to   his  strange-sweet 

friend, 

I  dare  be  sworn  we  would  have  won  the  bays. 
Why  not  ?     We  could  have  turned  in  amorous 

phrase 
Fancies  like  these,  where  love  and  friendship 

blend, 

(Or  were  they  writ  for  some  more  private  end  ?) 
And  this,  we  see,  remembered  is  with  praise. 
Yes,  there  's  a  luck  in  most  things,  and  in  none 

More  than  in  being  born  at  the  right  time ; 
It  boots  not  what  the  labor  to  be  done, 

Or  feats  of  arms,  or  art,  or  building  rhyme. 
Not  that  the  heavens  the  little  can  make  great, 
But  many  a  man  has  lived  an  age  too  late ! 


TO  JAMES   LORIMER   GRAHAM,   JR.  1/9 


TO   JAMES   LORIMER   GRAHAM,  JR. 

(WITH  SHAKESPEARE'S  SONNETS.) 

VII  7 HAT  can  I  give  him,  who  so  much  hath 

^  *        given,  — 

That  princely  heart,  so  over-kind  to  me, 
Who,  richly  guerdoned  both  of  earth  and  heaven, 
Holds  for  his  friends  his  heritage  in  fee  ? 
No  costly  trinket  of  the  golden  ore, 
Nor  precious  jewel  of  the  distant  Ind  : 
Ay  me  !     These  are  not  hoarded  in  my  store, 
Who  have  no  coffers  but  my  grateful  mind. 
What  gift  then,  —  nothing  ?     Stay,  this  book  of 

song 

May  show  my  poverty  and  thy  desert, 
Steeped  as  it  is  in  love,  and  love's  sweet  wrong, 
Red  with    the   blood    that   ran   through   Shake 
speare's  heart. 

Read  it  once  more,  and,  fancy  soaring  free, 
Think,  if  thou  canst,  that  I  am  singing  thee ! 


ISO      COLONEL  FREDERICK  TAYLOR. 


COLONEL  FREDERICK  TAYLOR 

GETTYSBURG,  JULY  3,  1863. 

MANY  the  ways  that  lead  to  death,  but  few 
Grandly,  and  only  one  is  glory's  gate, 
Standing  wherever  freemen  dare  their  fate, 
Determined,  as  thou  wert,  to  die  —  or  do  ! 
This  hast  thou  passed,  young  soldier,  storming 

through 

The  fiery  darkness  round  it ;  not  too  late 
To  know  the  invaders  beaten  from  thy  State,  — 
Ah,  why  too  soon  to  rout  them  and  pursue  ? 
But  some  must  fall  as  thou  hast  fallen  ;  some 
Remain  to  fight  and  fall  another  day ; 

And   some  go  down  in  peace  to  their  long 

rest. 

If 't  were  not  now,  it  would  be  still  to  come  ; 
And  whether  now,  or  when   thy   hairs   were 

gray, 
Were  fittest  for  thee,  God  alone  knows  best. 


TO  JERVIS    McENTEE,    ARTIST.  l8l 


TO   JERVIS   McENTEE,   ARTIST. 

T  ERVIS,  my  friend,  I  envy  you  the  art 
J    Which  you  profess,  and  which  possesses  you, 

To  mimic  Nature  ;  unto  her  so  true, 
Your  pictures  are  what  she  is  to  the  heart, 
The  mystery  of  which  it  is  a  part, 

That  gladdens  when  we  crush  the  vernal  dew, 

And  saddens  when  leaves  fall  and  flowers  are 

few, 

Nor  quite  forsakes  us  in  the  busy  mart 
Whence  she  is  banished,  save  in  slips  of  sky 

That  swim  in  mist,  or  drip  in  dreary  rain, 
No  glimpse  of  peaks  far  off,  nor  forests  nigh, 

Only  dark  streets,  strange   forms,  —  a  barren 

pain; 
Till  to  my  wall  I  turn  a  longing  eye, 

When  you  restore  me  mountains,  woods  again ! 


1 82  FLORENCE   NIGHTINGALE. 


FLORENCE   NIGHTINGALE. 

ENGLAND,  if  Time  from  out  the  Book  of 
Fame 

Should  blot  the  desperate  valor  of  thy  men 
In  the  Crimea,  an  Englishwoman's  name, 
As  sweet  as  ever  came  from  poet's  pen, 
Would  still  defy  him,  —  Florence  Nightingale  ! 
Honor  to  that  fair  girl,  whose  pitying  heart 
Led  her  across  the  sea,  to  ease  the  smart 
Of  soldier  wounds,  and  hush  the  soldier's  wail. 
Men  can  be  great  when  great  occasions  call : 
In  little  duties  women  find  their  spheres, 
The    narrow   cares   that   cluster  round  the 

hearth  ; 

But  this  dear  woman  wipes  a  woman's  tears, 
And  wears  the  crown  of  womanhood  for  all. 
Happy  the  land  that  gave  such  goodness  birth  ! 


TO    A    FRIEND.  183 


TO  A   FRIEND. 

WITH  A  VASE. 

T)OET,  take  this  little  vase, 
•*•      From  a  lover  of  the  race, 
Given  to  hold  —  a  funeral  jar  — 
The  ashes  of  thy  loved  cigar. 
If  for  that  it  seem  too  fine, 
Fill  it  to  the  brim  with  wine, 
And  drink,  in  love,  to  me  and  mine, 
As  I  drain  to  thee  and  thine. 
Ashes,  though,  may  suit  it  best 
(There  's  a  plenty  in  my  breast)  ; 
Fill  it,  then,  in  summer  hours, 
With  the  ashes  of  thy  flowers,  — 
Roses,  such  as  on  it  blow, 
Or  lilies,  like  its  ground  of  snow  ! 


184  IN    MEMORIAM. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

T    AM  followed  by  a  spirit, 
-••    In  my  sorrow  and  my  mirth  ; 
'T  is  the  spirit  of  an  infant, 
Dying  almost  at  its  birth, 
Unlamented,  yet  how  dear, 
Since,  unseen,  I  know  't  is  near ! 

Would,  if  only  for  a  moment, 
As  I  feel  it,  I  could  see, 

In  the  light  of  heavenly  beauty, 
Sitting  on  its  father's  knee  ! 

It  would  dry  this  hopeless  tear, 

Dropping  now,  it  is  so  near ! 


"\  T  7  HAT  shall  I  sing,  and  how, 

*  *      Of  what  I  suffer  now  ? 
To  nature  trust,  or  art, 
The  burden  of  my  heart  ? 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

'T  is  three  weeks  now,  but  three, 
Since  he  was  here  with  me : 
The  dreadful  time  has  flown, 
And  now  I  am  alone ! 

I  left  him  in  the  morn, 
(Not  knowing  how  forlorn  !) 
There  in  his  little  bed, 
Weak,  sick,  but  O,  not  dead ! 

When  I  came  back  at  noon, 
(Too  late,  and  yet  so  soon !) 
They  met  me  on  the  stairs, 
Like  Judgment  unawares ! 

I  stopped.     "  Your  Will  is  dead  !  " 
"  It  cannot  be,"  I  said. 
It  could,  it  was,  —  ah,  why  ? 
What  had  he  done  to  die  ? 

I  knelt  beside  his  bed, 
I  kissed  his  royal  head, 
His  hand,  his  feet,  his  arm,  — 
The  body  yet  was  warm  ! 


1 86  IN    MEMORIAM. 

I  wept !     But  did  I  weep  ? 

Or  was  my  grief  too  deep  ? 

I  only  know  I  cursed  ;  — 

Pray  Heaven  that  was  the  worst ! 

And  shall  I  sing  of  this  ? 
Or  of  the  dark  abyss 
In  which  I  grope  apart, 
Hugging  my  broken  heart  ? 

Not  now,  whate'er  I  may 
In  some  far  distant  clay ; 
Enough  what  here  appears, 
Drowned  in  these  bitter  tears  ! 

ii. 
The  Christmas-time  drew  slowly  near, 

The  happy  days  we  loved  to  see ; 

Thrice  had  we  had  a  Christmas-tree, 
The  evergreen  of  all  the  year. 

"  What  have  you  brought  me  ? "  asked  the  boy 
When  I  came  home  at  night ;  and  I 
Made  some,  I  know  not  what,  reply, 

The  promise  of  a  future  toy. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  l8/ 

"  You  must  not  ask  me  any  more,'* 
I  said  at  last ;  "  but  wait  and  see, 
When  Christmas  comes,  your  Christmas-tree, 

For  you  shall  have  it  as  before." 

We  meant  to  have  a  tiny  one, 

With  pendent  toys  and  lighted  boughs  ; 
But  darkness  fell  upon  the  \house, 

For  Death,  in  passing,  took  my  son ! 

Nathless  he  had  his  Christmas-tree  ; 

For  pines  within  the  graveyard  stand, 

Above  his  bed  of  yellow  sand, 
Beside  the  moaning  of  the  sea. 

in. 
"  Come  ^lnto  these  yellow  sands? 

Not  to  sing  a  fairy  song, 
As  when  summer  nights  are  sweet, 
Keeping  time  with  flying  feet ; 
But  to  wring  your  hands, 

Now  the  nights  are  long, 
And  the  winds  of  winter  blow, 
Whirling  round  the  drifts  of  snow, 
Over  him  who  lies  below, 
Buried  (God  have  mercy ! )  in  the  yellow  sands. 


1 88  IN    MEMORIAM. 

IV. 

I  sit  in  my  lonesome  chamber 

This  stilly  winter  night, 
In  the  midst  of  quaint  old  volumes, 

With  the  cheery  fire  in  sight ! 

In  the  darkened  room  behind  me, 

My  darling  lies  asleep, 
Worn  out  with  constant  weeping,  — 

'T  is  now  my  turn  to  weep  ! 

What  do  I  weep  for  ?     Nothing ! 

Or  a  very  common  thing  ; 
That  the  little  boy  I  loved  so, 

Like  a  dove  has  taken  wing ! 

He  used  to  sleep  beside  us, 
In  reach  of  his  mother's  hand  ; 

They  have  moved  his  bed,  —  ah,  whither  ? 
And  made  him  one  in  the  sand ! 

"Why  did  n't  they  make  mine  also  ? 

I  'm  sure  I  want  to  go  : 
But  no,  I  must  live  for  his  mother, 

For  she  needs  me  still,  I  know. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  189 

For  her  I  must  bear  my  sorrow, 

Nor  weep,  when  she  can  see ; 
She  grieves  too  much  already, 

To  waste  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

«r 

V. 

You  think  —  I  see  it  by  your  looks  — 
That  I  am  buried  in  my  books, 
Wherein,  as  when  he  lived,  I  find 
An  easy  solace  for  my  mind. 

It  is  not  so.     I  try,  indeed, 
What  charmed  me  once  again  to  read  ; 
Page  after  page  I  turn  in  vain,  — 
They  leave  no  meaning  in  my  brain. 

I  see  the  words  ;  they  come  and  go, 
In  dark  procession,  sad  and  slow, 
Like  mourners  at  a  funeral, — 
I  know  who  lies  beneath  the  pall ! 

I  dally  with  my  books,  and  why  ? 
Read  you  the  reason  in  my  eye  : 
Because  I  would  do  more  than  weep  ; 
Grief,  even  for  him,  may  be  too  deep ! 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

Had  /  been  taken,  what  would  he, 
Dear  heart !  be  doing  now  for  me  ? 
His  few  tears  dried  (the  blow  being  new 
We  '11  grant  he  sheds  a  tear  or  two), 

He  would  have  smiled  as  heretofore, 
And  soon  have  talked  of  me  no  more  : 
Like  other  little  orphan  boys, 
He  would  be  playing  with  his  toys ! 

Should  I,  a  child  of  larger  growth 
(You  know  you  called  us  children,  both), 
Be,  in  my  grief,  less  wise  than  he  ? 
Or  you  be  harder,  love,  with  me  ? 

Then  chide  not,  as  you  have  to-day, 
For  poring  o'er  my  books,  but  say, 
"  His  ways  remind  me  of  the  boy's  ; 
For  see,  he  's  playing  with  his  toys  !  " 

VI. 

What  shall  we  do  when  those  we  love 
Are  gone  to  their  seraphic  rest  ? 
Since  we  must  live,  what  life  is  best 

Before  the  clearer  eyes  above  ? 


IN    MEMORIAM.  IQI 

Shall  we  recall  them  as  they  were,  — 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  dreadful  blow 
That,  dealt  in  darkness,  laid  them  low,  — 

The  coffin  and  the  sepulchre  ? 

Or  shall  we  rather  (say,  we  can) 

Be  what  we  used  to  be  of  old  ? 

Work,  one  for  love,  and  one  for  gold  — 
The  tender  woman,  worldly  man  ? 

Shall  we  be  jealous  if  the  heart 

Lets  go  a  moment  of  its  dead  ? 

Mistrust  it,  and  revile  the  head, 
And  say  to  all  but  Death,  "  Depart"  ? 

Or  shall  we  willing  be  to  take 

What  good  we  may  in  common  things,  — 
Blue  skies,  the  sea,  a  bird  that  sings, 

And  other  hearts  that  do  not  break  ? 

What  God  approves,  methinks,  I  know 
(If  aught  we  do  approved  can  be), 
But  since  my  child  was  taken  from  me, 

My  only  pleasure  is  in  woe :  — 


I92  IN    MEMORIAM. 

My  tortured  heart,  my  frenzied  head, 
For  when,  as  now,  a  smile  appears, 
I  would  be  drowned  in  endless  tears, 

Or,  happier,  with  my  darling  dead  ! 

VII. 

We  sat  by  the  cheerless  fireside, 
Mother,  and  you,  and  I ; 

All  thinking  of  our  darling, 
And  sad  enough  to  die  ! 

He  lay  in  his  little  coffin, 
In  the  room  adjoining  ours  ; 

A  Christmas  wreath  on  his  bosom, 
His  brow  in  a  band  of  flowers. 

"  We  bury  the  boy  to-morrow," 
I  said,  or  seemed  to  say  ; 

"  Would  I  could  keep  it  from  coming 
By  lengthening  out  to-day  ! 

"  Why  can't  I  sit  by  the  fireside, 

As  I  am  sitting  now, 
And  feel  my  gray  hairs  thinning, 

And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ? 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

"  God  keep  him  there  in  his  coffin 
Till  the  years  have  rolled  away ! 

If  he  must  be  buried  to-morrow, 
O  let  me  die  to-day  !  " 

of 

VIII. 

It  looks  in  at  the  window, 

Divinely  bright  and  far, 
The  loving  star  of  Venus, 

Our  little  Willy's  star! 

He  used  to  watch  its  rising, 
As  we  have  done  to-night  ; 

Its  lustrous,  steel-blue  twinkle, 
Its  steady  heart  of  light ! 

"  O  mamma,  there  is  Venus  !  " 
Methinks  I  hear  him  cry, 

As  he  leads  us  to  the  window, 
To  watch  his  brighter  eye  ! 

And  once  we  saw  him  kneeling 

Before  it,  in  his  chair, 
Folding  his  hands  together, 

And  making  some  sweet  prayer  ! 


194  IN    MEMORIAM. 

What  did  he  ask  you,  Venus  ? 

To  take  his  soul  away  ? 
Or,  feeling  he  must  leave  us, 

Perhaps  he  prayed  to  stay ! 

God  knows  ;  you  cannot  tell  us, 
And  he  is  gone  afar  ; 

And  we  are  left  in  sorrow, 
To  gaze  upon  his  star  ! 

IX. 

What  shall  I  do  next  summer  ? 

What  will  become  of  me 
When  I  draw  near  my  cottage, 

Beside  the  solemn  sea  ? 

Along  the  dusty  roadside 
I  shall  not  see  him  run, 

To  greet  his  loving  father, 
So  proud  to  meet  his  son  ! 

No  longer  in  the  distance 
I  '11  strain  my  eager  eyes, 

To  catch  him  at  the  window, 
And  mark  his  sweet  surprise. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  195 

The  gate  how  can  I  enter  ? 

How  bear  to  touch  the  door 
That  opens  in  the  chambers 

Where  he  is  seen  no  more  ? 

When  last  I  crossed  the  threshold 

(I  'm  glad  I  did  not  take 
His  dear  dead  body  thither  !) 

I  thought  my  heart  would  break. 

"  My  son  was  here  last  summer  : 

He  sat  in  yonder  chair  ; 
And  there,  beside  the  window, 

I  kissed  his  golden  hair  !  " 

With  every  sweet  remembrance 

There  came  a  burst  of  tears  ; 
There  is  but  one  such  tempest 

In  all  our  stormy  years. 

I  kissed  the  chair  he  sat  in, 

The  spot  his  feet  had  trod  ; 
I  clutched  the  empty  darkness 

To  pluck  him  back  from  God. 


196  IN    MEMORIAM. 

O  ruined  heart  and  hearth-stone  ! 

What  will  become  of  me, 
In  my  deserted  dwelling 

Beside  the  dreadful  sea  ? 

x. 

This  book  of  dirges,  if  it 
True  to  the  hue  of  grief  in  me, 
To  what  I  am,  my  son,  for  thee, 

Will  be  an  endless^  stretch  of  plain, 
Swept  by  the  dreary  autumn  rain, 
And  winds  that  sob,  like  souls  in  pain  ! 

No  light,  a  blind  sky  overhead, 
And  everywhere  a  sense  of  dread  : 
For  such  my  heart  is,  —  broken,  dead  ! 

XI. 

When  first  he  died  there  was  no  day 
That  was  not  saddened  by  my  tears  : 
"  And  't  will  be  thus,"  I  said,  "  for  years  ; 

His  memory  cannot  fade  away." 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

That  first  wild  burst  of  grief  is  o'er, 
The  spring  is  sealed  of  wretchedness  ; 
Not  that  I  love  my  darling  less, 

But  love,  or  think  of,  others  more. 

They  move  me  as  they  could  not  then,  — 
My  brain  at  least,  if  not  my  heart ; 
And  so  I  try  to  act  my  part 

As  patiently  as  lesser  men. 

Pale  fathers  pass  me  in  the  street, 

Whose  little  sons,  like  mine,  are  dead  ; 
I  see  it  in  the  drooping  head, 

And  in  the  wandering  of  the  feet ! 

XII. 

The  dreary  winter  days  are  past, 

The  cloudy  sky,  the  bitter  blast : 
Gone  is  the  snow,  the  sleet 
That  glazed  each  rugged  street. 

All  things  proclaim  tha.t  Spring  is  near, 
Rejoicing  in  the  wakened  Year  : 

Even  7,  whose  tears  are  shed 

Above  the  Winter  dead  ! 


IQ8  IN    MEMORIAM. 

Darker  than  now  my  death  can  be, 

In  that  it  took  my  boy  from  me,  — 
My  heart  it  did  not  wring 
Like  this  first  breath  of  Spring  ! 

What  though  the  clouds  were  thick  o'erhead, 
And  earth  was  iron  to  my  tread, 

Rains  poured,  snows  whirled,  winds  blew, 

And  my  great  grief  was  new  ? 

T  was  still  —  if  not  a  solace,  yet 
Something  akin  that  laid  regret : 

It  hushed  my  useless  moan 

To  think  I  was  alone  I 

When  drove  the  snow,  the  thought  would  rise, 
"  It  does  not  blind  his  little  eyes  ! " 

When  winds  were  sharp  I  smiled  ; 

"  They  cannot  stab  my  child  1 " 

Now  Spring  is  come,  I  sigh  and  say, 
"  He  cannot  see  this  sunny  day, 

Nor  feel  this  balmy  air 

That  lon^s  to  kiss  his  hair  1 J> 


IN    MEMORIAM.  199 

The  tender  spirit  of  the  hour 

That  stirs  the  sap,  and  paints  the  flower, 

Enfolding  land  and  sea, 

And  quickening  even  me, 

So  stings  my  soul,  I  hold  my  breath, 
And  try  to  break  the  dream  of  death, 

And  stagger  on  his  track 

Until  I  snatch  him  back ! 

Great  God  !  if  he  should  feel  it  there, 
(Where,  where,  —  some  angel  tell  me  where  ?) 

And  struggle  so  for  me, 

How  terrible  't  would  be  ! 


UT  of  the  deeps  of  heaven 

A  bird  has  flown  to  my  door, 
As  twice  in  the  ripening  summers 
Its  mates  have  flown  before  ! 

Why  it  has  flown  to  my  dwelling, 
Nor  it  nor  I  may  know  ; 


20O  IN    MEMORIAM. 

And  only  the  silent  angels 
Can  tell  when  it  shall  go  ! 

That  it  will  not  straightway  vanish, 
But  fold  its  wings  with  me, 

And  sing  in  the  greenest  branches 
Till  the  axe  is  laid  to  the  tree, 

Is  the  prayer  of  my  love  and  terror, 
For  my  soul  is  sore  distrest, 

Lest  I  wake  some  dreadful  morning, 
And  find  but  its  empty  nest ! 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  2OI 


THE   BOOK    OF   THE   EAST. 

PERSIAN    SONGS. 

WEET  are  the  garden  spaces, 

Lighted  with  happy  faces  : 
Long  may  their  faces  shine, 
The  merry  drinkers  of  wine  ! 

The  wind  of  the  morning  blows 
Out  of  the  heart  of  the  rose  : 
My  heart,  or  the  rose  at  my  feet,  — - 
Which  is  the  sweetest,  Sweet  ? 

But  the  rose  will  soon  depart, 
And  leave  its  thorns  in  my  heart ; 
Then  I  shall  sigh,  and  wail, 
And  bleed,  like  the  nightingale. 

O  nightingale,  come  with  the  dews ! 
Thy  coming  will  be  good  news  ; 
For  lovers  that  cannot  sleep 
Listen  to  thee,  and  weep  ! 


202        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


T    CANNOT  sing  my  songs  alone, 
•*•    Although  my  thoughts  are  free  ; 

Nor  yet  when  only  men  are  by  ; 

But  in  the  light  of  woman's  eye 
The  Muses  favor  me. 

I  am  a  very  nightingale, 

With  woman  at  my  feet ; 
And,  like  that  voice  of  Beauty's  bowers, 
I  feed  on  flowers  —  my  woman-flowers  — 

To  make  my  songs  more  sweet ! 


HE  heart  where  love  and  patience  dwell 
But  such  there  cannot  be  — 
I  hold  it  not  a  heart,  but  stone, 

It  will  not  do  for  me. 
Ah,  no !  a  thousand  pharsangs  part 
The  loving  and  the  patient  heart. 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  2O3 

What  discipline  shall  I  adopt 

To  ease  this  woe  of  mine  ? 
I  harken  to  the  harp,  in  vain, 

And  drain  the  cups  of  wine  ; 
I  love,  but  cannot  patient  be, 
Nor  can  the  patient  love  like  me ! 


NOT  wholly,  poet,  from  the  eyes 
Doth  love  arise : 
For  words  create,  though  ne'er  express, 

This  happiness. 
Once  at  the  portal  of  the  ear, 

Let  love  appear,  — 
There  is  no  rest  for  heart,  or  brain, 

Till  loved  again  ! 
No  need  of  sight,  enough  for  me 

To  hear,  not  see. 
The  god  I  serve  is  painted  blind, 
To  show  his  eyes  are  in  his  mind ! 


2O4         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


TV  j\  Y  little  soul,  my  lover,  — 
-*>*-*•    He  does  not  hear  me  sigh 
Tell  me  the  street  he  lives  in, 
At  once  to  him  I  '11  fly  ! 

If  I  can  only  find  him, 

He  's  sure  to  hear  my  prayer : 
Tell  me  the  street  you  live  in, 

O  Mirza,  tell  me  where  ! 

Give  me  a  cup  of  wine,  dear, 
And  listen  to  my  plea  ; 

Say,  when  you  love  another, 
You  want  no  more  of  me  ! 


HTURKANNA  !  in  my  sleep 
•*•     I  saw  thee,  and  was  blest ; 
I  kissed  thy  scented  hair, 

I  laid  upon  thy  breast ! 
Shall  it  be,  or  only  seem  ? 
Pray  expound  that  happy  dream, 

Beautiful  Turkanna  ! 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  2O5 


TWO  strings  for  my  guitar 
I  will  spin  from  your  hair ; 
What  else  can  you  expect 
From  a  lover  in  despair  ? 

You  grant  a  "  Yes  !  "  to  all, 
But  the  man  that  is  your  own  ; 

When  I  ask  for  a  kiss, 
It  is  "  No  ! "  to  me  alone ! 

Were  I  marble  I  would  be 

A  floor  where  you  might  walk, 

As  stately  as  a  cypress, 
With  an  eye  like  a  hawk  ! 

You  said  that  you  would  come, 
Where  is  your  promise,  dear  ? 

For  lo  !  I  am  alone, 

And  the  midnight  is  here ! 


2O6         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


"X/OUR  hands  are  red  with  henna, 

-*•     And  you  wear  a  Cashmere  shawl  ; 
Such  gay  and  cruel  colors 
Become  you  best  of  all. 

You  stand  in  blooming  beauty, 
Like  a  mulberry-tree,  my  dear : 

I  Ve  eaten  mulberries  often, 
But  not  enough  this  year ! 

We  did  not  sit  together, 

Nor  touch  our  knees  again : 
I  talked  with  you  so  little 

I  could  not  tell  my  pain ! 

Come  to  me  in  the  morning, 

Again  when  day  doth  end  : 
Nobody,  love,  will  mind  it, 

They  '11  say  you  are  my  friend  ! 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  2O? 


HE  does  not  hear  my  sighing, 

My  rose,  my  willow  leaf ; 

And  if  she  heard,  —  what  matter  ? 

She  would  not  heal  my  grief. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  when  day  breaks, 
And  when  the  day  doth  close  ; 

I  'm  drunken  with  your  beauty, 
O  European  Rose ! 

And  if  she 's  from  Arabia, 

This  little  love  of  mine, 
Her  mouth  shall  be  my  wineglass, 

Her  kiss  shall  be  my  wine ! 

Her  travelling-packs  are  ready, 
She  fastens  on  her  shawl ; 

Were  I  the  shawl  I  'd  hold  her,  — 
She  should  not  go  at  all ! 

When  shall  I  see  thee,  darling, 
And  lighten  my  poor  heart  ? 

I  come  once  more  to  whisper 
Its  secrets  —  and  depart ! 


2O8  THE    BOOK   OF    THE    EAST. 


T~\  O  not  yet  put  on  your  slippers, 

I  shall  die ! 
Do  not  take  your  veil,  beloved, 

Do  not  fly  ! 
Ah  !  so  sweet  your  conversation, 

Do  not  go  ; 
Stop  a  minute,  Rose,  my  darling, 

Leave  not  so  ! 
'Tis  the  very  hour  for  prattle, 

'T  is  the  hour,  — 
O  my  darling  !  O  my  sweetest 

Poppy  flower ! 
See,  the  ceiling  of  the  chamber 

Painted  fine  ; 
Rose  was  never  like  your  blushes, 

Rose  of  mine ! 
O  my  sunflower  !  my  belove'd, 

Linger  here  : 
Linger,  —  I  have  lost  all  patience, 

All,  my  dear. 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  2OQ 

Sweetheart !  'i  is  a  lonely  chamber, 

No  one  near  : 
Rose  of  Khansar,  sweet  as  amber, 

Blossom  here  ! 
Hurry,  hurry  on  the  wedding, 

Or  I  die ; 
Nay,  I  'm  dying,  dead  already, 

If  you  fly  ! 
Sweetheart,  with  your  eyebrow  bending, 

Like  a  bow ; 
And  your  arrowy  glances  flying, 

So,  and  so  ; 
Stop,  my  love,  another  minute,  — 

Do  not  go  ! 


T    FELL  in  love  with  a  Turkish  maid, 
•*-    (She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake.) 
A  scarlet  turban  covers  her  head, 

(She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake .) 
My  eyes  are  red  with  tears, 

And  my  sighs  like  smoke  are  driven, — 
H 


210         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  smoke  of  my  burning  heart 

Reaching  the  seventh  heaven! 
The  happiness  of  the  world 
Awakes  for  her  sweet  sake  ; 

But  she,  she, 

Who  is  more  than  happiness  to  me,  - 
She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake  ! 

I  came  and  saw  the  maid  asleep, 
(For  sometimes  eyes  forget  to  weep, 
And  hearts  forget  to  ache ;) 
My  arms  embraced 
Her  .slender  waist, 
And  with  my  hands  I  pressed 
The  citrons  of  her  breast : 

(She  slept,  she  did  not  wake  !) 
Who  weds,  they  say,  a  maiden, 
Has  a  world  of  sweets  in  store, 

Fresh  as  the  buds  in  May  ; 
But  the  riper  charms  of  widows 

Are  like  the  fruits  of  autumn 
i 

That  drop  from  day  to  day ! 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  211 


I  measure  with  my  steps  the  shore  ; 
I  hearken  to  the  ocean's  roar ; 
My  heart  is  like  to  break,  — 
She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake  ! 


T  T  is  a  morn  in  winter, 
-•-    The  air  is  white  with  snow  ; 
And  on  the  chinar  branches 
Jasmins  seem  to  grow. 

The  furrowed  fields  and  hill-tops 

With  icy  treasures  shine, 
Like  scales  of  silver  fishes, 

Or  jewels  in  a  mine. 

The  bitter  wind  has  banished 

The  silent  nightingale, 
And  the  rose,  like  some  coy  maiden, 

Is  muffled  in  a  veil. 

Its  silver  song  of  summer 
No  more  the  fountain  sings, 

And  frozen  are  the  rivers 
That  fed  the  baths  of  kings  ! 


212  THE    BOOK    OF    THE    EAST. 

No  flower-girls  in  the  market, 
For  flowers  are  out  of  date  ; 

And  the  keepers  of  the  roses 
Have  shut  the  garden  gate. 

No  happy  guests  are  drinking 

Their  goblets  crowned  with  wine  ; 

For  gone  are  all  the  merchants 
That  sold  the  merry  wine ; 

And  gone  the  dancing  maidens 
Before  the  winds  and  snows : 

Their  summer  souls  have  followed 
The  nightingale  and  rose  ! 


JOY  may  be  a  miser, 
But  Sorrow's  purse  is  free. 
I  had  two  griefs  already, 

He  gave  two  more  to  me  : 
He  filled  my  eyes  with  water, 

He  filled  my  heart  with  pain  ; 
And  then,  the  liberal  fellow, 
He  promised  to  again ! 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  213 

r  I  ^HUS  to  waste  the  precious  hours, 
-*-     With  the  hues  and  scents  of  flowers, 
Captured  by  the  woman's  eyes 
That  bestows  them,  is  not  wise. 

Take  the  flowers  that  longest  live, 
And  the  sweetest  odors  give  ; 
Scarce  a  summer's  day  they  bloom, 
Frailer  still  is  woman's  doom. 

Therefore  keep  thy  fancy  free, 
Woman  knows  not  constancy  : 
This  the  soundest  wits  approve, 
This  is  wise,  —  but  not  to  love ! 


AY  and  night  my  thoughts  incline 

To  the  blandishments  of  wine  : 
Jars  were  made  to  drain,  I  think, 
Wine,  I  know,  was  made  to  drink ! 

When  I  die,  (the  day  be  far !) 
Should  the  potters  make  a  jar 
Out  of  this  poor  clay  of  mine, 
Let  the  jar  be  filled  with  wine  ! 


214         THE  B0°K  OF  THE  EAST. 


THEY  know  me  at  the  tavern, 
No  face  so  well  as  mine ; 
And  in  the  drinking-cellars, 
The  king  of  all  good  fellows, 
A  worshipper  of  wine  ! 
i 

They  lift  me  on  their  shoulders, 
Those  merry  friends  of  mine  ; 
And  long  as  they  are  able 
They  pass  me  round  the  table, 
Like  some  great  skin  of  wine  ! 


T  N  the  market-place  one  day 
•*•    I  saw  a  potter  stamping  clay  ; 
And  the  clay  beneath  his  tread 
Lifted  up  its  voice,  and  said, 
"  Potter,  gentle  be  with  me, 
I  was  once  a  man  like  thee  1 " 


PERSIAN    SONGS.  21$ 


(Sadi.) 

A   PART  from  all  the  creatures  of  the  earth 
-^~^  I  sit  and  weep  aloud,  and  in  my  grief 
My  eyes  send  up  to  heaven  their  hopeless  tears. 

Even  as  a  little  boy,  whose  bird  is  flown 

From  out  his  hand,  still  weeps  for    that   same 

bird,  - 
So  I  bewail  my  sweet  but  vanished  life ! 


(Hakim  Sanayi.} 

WHAT  sweetness  is  there  in  the  honeycomb, 
That  is  not  tasted,  sweet  one,  in  thy  kiss  ? 

What  beauty  is  there  in  the  pheasant's  walk, 
That  is  not  seen,  beloved,  in  thy  step  ? 

What  heart  in  all  the  city  is  not  thine  ? 
The  heart  that  is  not  thine  no  longer  beats ! 

The  bird  that  flies  not  to  thy  nest  of  love 
Deserves  to  fly  no  more  :  why  has  he  wings  ? 


2l6        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


TARTAR  SONGS. 

S,  we  are  merry  Cossacks, 
Though  not  the  Russian  breed  ; 
But  bring  a  steed  from  Ilmen, 
And  fatten  the  lean  steed. 

When  we  come  back  with  plunder, 
We  are  true  Cossacks  then : 

We  sleep  in  the  arms  of  beauties, 
My  merry,  merry  men. 


'HHHE  merry  spring  is  here,  — 
•*-     Then  come  before  it  fades, 
Pluck  handfuls  of  red  roses, 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  maids. 

The  lips  of  maids  in  spring 
Are  cardamoms  and  cloves  ; 

Let  each  fair  maid  come  hither, 
And  kiss  the  man  she  loves  ! 


TARTAR   SONGS. 


T  AM  drunk  with  thy  fragrant  breath, 
•*•  Come  hither,  my  girl,  to  me  ; 
Of  all  the  g-irls  that  I  know, 
I  have  given  my  heart  to  thee ! 

In  the  fruits  of  beauty  around, 
Thou  art  my  peach,  and  my  pear  ; 

O,  when  wilt  thou  lie  on  my  breast, 
From  dusk  till  dawn,  my  fair  ? 


T  WANDERED  by  a  river, 
•*•    And  met  a  lady  fair, 
And  she  was  busy  bathing 
Behind  her  veil  of  hair. 

"  If  I  should  buy,  sweet  idol, 
Your  ringlets  long  and  rare, 

Tell  me  the  price."    She  answered, 
"  A  pearl  for  every  hair  ! " 


2l8         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


FOLLOWER  of  the  Prophet ! 
My  heart  is  again  on  fire  ; 
A  certain  man  has  a  daughter, 
Who  kindles  my  desire. 

How  shall  you  find  the  Houri  ? 

Easy  enough,  d'  ye  see  ; 
Before  the  door  of  her  dwelling 

There  grows  a  mulberry-tree  ! 


,  do  not  flutter  your  wings, 
It  is  too  early  to  crow. 
Is  my  darling  asleep,  or  awake  ? 
Unhappy  !  I  do  not  know. 

God  strike  thee  dumb,  O  Cock  ! 

That  crowest  ere  morning  beams  ; 
You  Ve  wakened  me  out  of  my  sleep 

And  out  of  the  happiest  dreams  ! 


TARTAR   SONGS.  2IQ 


T  T  E  rode  from  the  Khora  Tukhan 
-*•  **    On  his  nimble  bay  steed, 
For  the  eyes  of  his  mistress,  Girgalla, 
Forsaking  his  creed. 

He  gave  his  broad  belt  to  his  comrade ; 

"  Why  scoff  you  ?  "  he  said. 
The  sheep  are  all  killed  for  the  wedding, 

The  dishes  are  spread. 

I  have  sat  in  the  rains  and  the  thunders, 

Alone,  since  she  went. 
I  would  I  could  sit  down  beside  her, 

Beneath  the  white  tent ! 

When  I  lift  to  my  lips  the  red  tea-cup, 

Slow  sipping  the  tea, 
I  think  of  the  lips  of  Girgalla, 

And  sigh,  "  Woe  is  me  !  " 


22O        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

I  peeped  through  the  snowy  tent  curtains, 

Girgalla  was  there : 
She  stood  like  a  peacock  before  me,  — 

No  peacock  so  fair. 

Your  head  on  the  lap  of  Girgalla, 

Stretched  out  at  your  ease, 
No  cushion,  you  say,  of  swan's  feathers 

So  soft  as  her  knees  ! 


ID  LOW,  Wind,  blow!  — 
^~*   And  carry  news  of  me 

Away  to  Astrabad, 

Away  to  my  Sakina  ; 

And  as  soon  as  you  have  seen  her 

Say,  "  A  Tartar  lad 

Sends  this  kiss  to  thee  !  " 

Then,  your  sweet  lips  prest 

To  her  snowy  breast, 

Kiss  her  so  — and  so  ! 


TARTAR   SONGS.  221 


T    AM  a  white  falcon,  hurrah  ! 
-••    My  home  is  the  mountains  so  high  ; 
But  away  o'er  the  lands  and  the  waters, 
Wherever  I  please,  I  can  fly. 

I  wander  from  city  to  city, 

I  dart  from  the  wave  to  the  cloud  ; 

And  when  I  am  dead  I  shall  slumber, 
With  my  own  white  wings  for  a  shroud  ! 


I    AM  dying  of  the  brand 
Love  has  burned  upon  my  heart  ; 
Let  me  come  to  my  death 

By  the  girdle  that  you  wear ; 
I  must  see  you  twice,  or  thrice, 

Ere  the  day  can  depart, 
Or  I  ask  after  you, 

Of  the  birds  in  the  air  ! 


222         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


T  If  7" AIL  on,  thou  bleeding  nightingale  ! 
*  *    I  join  my  wail  with  thine  ; 
Deplore  thy  passion  for  the  rose, 
And  let  me  weep  for  mine  ! 

Lament  thy  rose  for  seventy  days, 

She  lives,  and  may  reply  ; 
But  mine  is  dead,  and  I  must  weep, 

Or  break  my  heart,  and  die  ! 


T7ORGIVE  me,  mother  dear, 
-*•      For  the  days  of  unrest 
And  the  sleepless  nights  you  passed 
When  I  sucked  from  your  breast ! 

Dig  my  grave  on  a  hill, 
On  the  summit  let  it  stand, 

That  the  wind  may  blow  my  dust 
To  my  own  Tartar  land  ! 


ARAB  SONGS.  223 


ARAB  SONGS. 

LOVELY  fawn  !  O  my  gazelle  ! 
O  moon  on  summer  seas  ! 
Full  moon  whose  beauty  doth  surpass 
The  Pleiades ! 

I  swear  an  oath  to  fast  a  month 
The  day  that  I  am  blest, — 

The  happy  day  I  press  thee,  dear, 
Upon  my  breast ! 


OLORD  MOHAMMED!  gracefullest 
Of  all  gazelles  art  thou  ! 
Thy  cheeks  are  like  the  roses, 
And  like  the  moon  thy  brow. 

Thy  shape  is  like  the  branches 

Of  the  Indian  walnut-tree  ; 
And  blest  be  He  who  made  thee, 

Although  I  die  for  thee. 


224  THE    BOOK   OF    THE   EAST. 


T)REAK  thou  my  heart,  ah,  break  it, 
•*^    If  such  thy  pleasure  be  ; 
Thy  will  is  mine,  —  what  say  I  ? 
'T  is  more  than  mine  to  me. 

And  if  my  life  offend  thee, 

My  passion  and  my  pain, 
Take  thou  my  life,  ah,  take  it, 

But  spare  me  thy  disdain  ! 


T3  ELOVED,  since  they  watch  us, 
-*~^   For  all  we  meet  are  spies, 
And  we  can  have  no  messengers, 
Except  our  loving  eyes, 

I  check  my  fiery  feelings, 
The  words  I  must  not  speak, 

Content  to  see,  —  I  dare  not  pluck,  - 
The  roses  of  thy  cheek ! 


ARAB    SONGS.  225 

Give  me  a  glance,  beloved, 

Now  none  are  near  to  see  •„ 
My  downcast  eyes  will  read  my  palms, 

I  will  not  look  at  thee. 

It  is  not  resignation, 

It  is  the  deepest  art : 
Be  wary,  then,  and  doubt  no  more, 

But  trust  my  loving  heart. 


art  my  only  love, 
The  world  is  nothing  now; 
In  no  walled  garden  grows 
So  fair  a  branch  as  thou. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  all, 
Ah  yes  !  it  must  be  so  : 

She  should  have  been  my  friend, 
She  has  become  my  foe. 

I  've  drunk  the  bitter  cup, 

Since  we  were  parted,  Sweet ; 

The  tears  I  shed  have  made 
This  river  at  my  feet ! 


226         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Ah  !  long,  long  hours  of  love ! 

Ah  !  nights  we  stole  from  sleep  ! 
When  such  sweet  nights  are  gone, 

It  is  no  shame  to  weep ! 


I    HID  my  love  when  near  you, 
My  pain  for  you  sweet  sake  ; 
But  now  that  you  are  absent, 

My  heart  must  speak,  or  break. 
God  save  you  from  such  passion  ! 

It  never  knows  despair  ; 
For  whether  kind  or  cruel, 
You  are  the  only  fair ! 

You  will  not  see  me,  Sweetest, 

Nor  answer,  when  I  call ; 
But  I  will  follow,  follow 

Beyond  the  giant's  wall ! 
Go,  shut  your  door  against  me, 

I  will  not  doubt,  or  fear ; 
God  still  leaves  one  door  open,  - 

The  door  of  hope,  my  dear ! 


ARAB    SONGS.  22/ 

Could  I  have  loved  another, 

That  time  is  now  no  more  ; 
I  cover  with  my  kisses 

The  threshold  of  your  door. 
*- 

Open  the  door  of  pity, 

And  hear  my  burning  sigh, 
For  absent  from  you  longer 

Is  sadder  than  to  die  ! 


IRL,  I  love  thee  ! "     Her  reply 
Was  the  saucy  one,  "  You  lie  ! 
If  you  love  me,  as  you  say, 
Why  are  you  alive  to-day  ? 
I  will  tell  you  what  to  do :  — 
There  will  be  no  love  in  you 
Till  your  blood  is  weak  and  thin, 
And  your  bones  prick  through  your  skin  ; 
Till  you  wither,  heart  and  mind, 
And  are  nearly  deaf  and  blind,  — 
Scarcely  hear  them  when  they  call, 
And  not  answer  them  at  all ; 


228         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Till  you  never  prate  again 
Of  your  love,  and  my  disdain  ; 
No,  nor  breathe  it  in  your  sighs ; 
Or  at  least  until  your  eyes, 
Blind  with  tears,  that  rain  for  me, 
Shall  your  only  vouchers  be." 

Master  of  the  Universe  ! 
If  there  a  deeper  curse 
Than  this  terrible  despaii, 
(Burden  more  than  I  can  bear ! ) 

0  let  Leila  have  her  share  !  — 
Let  my  love  divided  be ! 
Half  to  her,  and  half  to  me  ; 
Or,  if  this  be  not  her  fate, 
Let  her  neither  love  nor  hate, 
Only  be  indifferent,  — 

1  will  try  to  be  content. 

"  Ah,  but  she  is  sick,"  you  say. 
Why  was  I  not  sent  for,  pray  ? 
There  is  danger  in  delay. 
I  have  taken  my  degree 


ARAB    SONGS. 

(Leila  knows,  my  master,  she),  — 
Let  me  her  physician  be. 
These  diseases  of  the  heart 
Are  beyond  the  reach  of  art : 
He  who  gives  can  cure  the  smart ! 


229 


T  F  you  meet  my  sweet  gazelle, 
•*•    By  these  signs  you  '11  know  her  well 
Eyes  like  arrows,  black  and  bright, 
Cheeks  the  fiery  rose  of  night, 
And  her  voice  a  silver  bell. 

I  am  burning  with  desire, 

Like  a  parchment  in  the  fire  ; 

I  am  dying  ;   hear  my  cry  ; 

'T  is  for  love  of  thee  I  die, 

Emir's  Daughter,  —  Peacock's  Eye  ! 

Heart  of  rocks  !  be  soft  to  me, 

Or  my  tears  will  soften  thee,  - 

In  my  passion  and  my  pain 

Flowing  down  my  cheeks  like  rain,  — 

And  they  will  not  flow  in  vain ! 


230         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

I  know  where  her  palace  stands, 
It  is  in  the  far-off  lands, 
Over  mountains,  over  sands  : 
Seldom  letters  reach  her  there, 
Never  wretched  lover's  prayer  ! 

I  am  dying,  for  no  art 
Can  relieve  my  broken  heart. 
What  I  suffer  none  can  tell, 
Blasted  by  the  fires  of  hell,  — 
By  the  love  of  that  gazelle  ! 

There 's  a  stately  palm  that  grows 
Where  the  purest  water  flows  : 
She's  its  fruit :  her  lips  are  red 
As  the  blush  that  rubies  shed, 
Or  the  west  when  day  is  dead  ! 

Life  and  death  are  met  in  me, 
But  I  only  think  of  thee. 
Let  the  happy  fool  complain, 
What  is  dying  ?  where  's  the  pain  ? 
I  have  lived,  and  loved  in  vain  ! 


CHINESE    SONGS.  23! 


CHINESE    SONGS. 


T  T  P  in  an  old'-pagoda's  highest  tower 
^-     I  sat,  and  watched  the  falling  shades  of  eve. 


Long  curls  of  smoke,  and  sounds  of  distant  lutes 
As   faint   as    smoke,  spread    through  the  lonely 
wood. 

The  evening  wind  blew  over  the  cool  stream, 
Troubling  the  pallid  pin-flowers  on  its  bank  ; 

And  where  the  autumnal  hills  were  thickly  strewn 
With  faded,  fallen  leaves,  the  hoar-frost  fell. 

Naught  could  I  see  in  all  that  cloudless  sky, 
Except  the  wild  goose  flying  to  the  South. 

Hearkening   in    bright   moonshine    I    heard   the 

sound 
Of  distant  villagers  beating  out  their  rice. 


232         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Then,  thinking  of  the  friend,  whose  absent  face, 
The  long  year  through,  not  once  has  brightened 
mine, 

I  sought  the  window  shaded  o'er  with  pines, 
And  struck  the  strings  of  my  melodious  lute. 


(Soo  Hwuy.) 

HAT  time  my  husband  went  to  banish- 

ment, 

I  followed  to  the  foot  of  yonder  bridge  ; 
I  bore  my  grief,  but  could  not  say,  "  Farewell ! " 

Ah  !  why  have  you  not  written  me,  my  love  ? 
Our  couch,  remember,  even  in  spring  is  cold. 
The  staircase  that  you  built  has  crumbled  down, 
And  dust  has  soiled  the  windows,  and  white  cur 
tains. 

My  mind  is  sore  perplexed ;  I  would  I  were 
The  shadow  of  the  moon  upon  the  sea,  — 
The  cloud  that  floats  above  the  lofty  hills. 


CHINESE    SONGS.  233 

The  careless  clouds  behold  my  husband's  face, 
And  she,  the  sea-moon,  in  her  monthly  round  ; — 
They  know  the  man  a  thousand  leagues  away. 

The  tall  green  rushes  by  the  river's  side 
Have  faded,  since  we  parted  ;  but  the  plum  — 
Who  would  have  thought  before  we  met  again 
The   plum-tree  would  have  blossomed,  o'er  and 
o'er  ?  ' 

The  flowers  unfold  themselves  to  meet  the  spring  ; 
Our  hearts  unfold  in  vain,  no  spring  is  ours. 
My  thoughts  are  busied  so  with  your  return 
The  willow  at  the  door  droops  to  the  ground, 
And  no  one  sweeps  away  its  fallen  leaves. 

The  grass  before  the  house  grows  thick  and  rank  ; 
My  husband's  flute  hangs  idle  in  the  hall; 
He  sings  no  more  the  songs  of  Keang-nan. 

Because  no  letter  comes  to  me,  my  lord, 

My  silver  dress,  that  on  my  pillow  lies, 

Is  dyed  with  tears,  and  tears  have  spoiled  the 

flowers 
Broidered  in  gold  upon  my  satin  robe. 


234        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Thrice  have  I  heard  in  spring  the  wild-fowl's  cry, 
Crossing  the  swollen  stream.     I  sing  old  songs ; 
My  heart-strings  seem  to  break  upon  the  lute; 
I  faint  with  love,  and  grief ;  grief  ends  my  song. 

Forget  not,  O  my  lord,  your  own  true  wife, 
Your  wife,  whose  love  is  firmer  than  the  hills, 
Whose  thoughts  are  filled  with  you.     She  weaves 

this  song 

To  win  the  gracious  ear  of  Majesty. 
O  Son  of  Heaven  !  let  him  return,  and  soon  ! 


(From  the  "  Kang 

i. 

1\  ft  OULAN  is  weaving  at  her  cottage  door. 
^  *  *•    You  cannot  hear  the  weaving  shuttles  fly, 
You  only  hear  the  young  girl  sigh  and  moan. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  why  do  you  moan?" 
The  young  girl  thinks  of  nothing,  yet  she  moans. 

"  I  saw  the  army  record  yesterday ; 
The  Emperor  is  levying  troops  again  ; 


CHINESE    SONGS.  235 

The  book  has  twelve  long  chapters,  and  in  each 

I  saw  enrolled  my  honored  father's  name. 

II  What  can  be  done  to  save  the  poor  old  man  ? 
Thou  hast  no  grandson,  father ;  no,  not  one. 
Thou  hast  no  elder  brother,  O  Moulan  ! 
What  shall  I  do  ?     I  will  arise,  and  go, 

And  buy  a  horse  and  saddle.     I  will  go, 

And  serve,  and  fight,  in  my  dear  father's  stead." 

She  buys  a  swift  horse  at  the  eastern  market, — 
A  saddle  and  a  horse-cloth  at  the  western, 
And  at  the  southern  a  long  horseman's  whip. 
When    morning    comes    she    smiles    and    says, 

"  Farewell, 

Father  and  mother."     She  will  pass  the  night 
Beside  the  Yellow  River.     She  hears  no  more 
Father,  or  mother,  calling  for  their  child  ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  Yellow  River 
Is  all  she  hears.     Another  morning  comes  ; 
She  starts  again,  and  bids  the  stream  farewell. 
She  journeys  on,  and  when  the  evening  comes 
She  reaches  the  Black  River.     She  hears  no  more 
Father,  or  mother,  sighing  for  their  child  ; 
She  hears  the  savage  horsemen  of  Yen  Shen. 


236        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 
II. 

"  Where  have  you   been,  Moulan,  these  twelve 

long  years  ?" 
"  We  marched  and  fought  our  way  ten  thousand 

miles. 

Swift  as  a  bird  I  cleared  the  gulfs  and  hills. 
The  north-wind  brought  the  night  bell  to  my  ear ; 
The  moonlight  fell  upon  my  iron  mail. 

"  Twelve  years  are  past.     We  meet  the  Emperor 

When  we  return ;  he  sits  upon  his  throne. 

He  gives  this  man  a  badge  of  honor,  that 

An  hundred  or  a  thousand  silver  ounces. 

'  And  what  shall  he  give  me  ? '     And  I  reply  : 

'  Nor  wealth,  nor  office  ;  only  lend  Moulan  — 

She  asks  no  more  —  a  camel,  fleet  of  foot, 

To  lead  her  to  her  honored  father's  roof. ' ' 

Soon  as  the  father  and  the  mother  learn 
Moulan's  return  they  haste  to  meet  their  child  ; 
Soon  as  the  younger  sisters  see  them  go, 
They  leave  the  chamber  in  their  best  attire ; 
Soon  as  the  brave  young  brother  hears  the  news, 
He  straightway  whets  a  knife  to  kill  a  sheep. 


CHINESE    SONGS.  237 

"  My  mother  takes  my  warrior's  armor  off, 
And  clothes  me  in  my  woman's  garb  again : 
My  younger  sisters,  standing  by  the  door, 
Are  twining  golden  flowers  in  their  hair." 

Then  Moulan  left  the  room,  and  went  to  meet 
Her  fellow-soldiers,  who  were  much  amazed  ;  * — 
For  twelve  long  years  she  marched  and  fought 

with  them, 
And  yet  they  guessed  not  Moulan  was  a  girl. 


( Yuen    Yuen.) 

WE  started  when  the  clarion  of  the  cock 
Was  ceasing,  and  the  first  thin    curl   of 

smoke 

Rose  from  the  village  ;  not  a  withered  leaf 
Waved  in  the  frozen  forest,  and  no  bird 
Sang  there,  but  flocks  were  lighting  on  the  plain : 
In  vain  they  pecked  for  food,  the  barren  plain 
Bore  naught  but  rotten  grass  ;  frost  hid  the  roots  ; 
So  back  they  hastened  to  their  empty  nests. 


238         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  gray-haired  village  farmer,  up  at  dawn 
To  fondle  his  grandchildren,  hears  the  shout, 
"  A  Mandarin  is  passing  !  "     Staff  in  hand 
He  gazes,  leaning  on  his  matted  door. 
West  of  his  house  we  see  great  stacks  of  straw, 
And  in  the  east  the  golden  beams  of  day  ; 
His  thick  warm  garments,  and  his  ruddy  face, 
Are  signs  of  plenty,  and,  I  shrewdly  guess, 
That  somewhere  in  his  house  could  still  be  found 
One  measure  more  of  rice,  stowed  in  the  bin. 


(Keaa.) 

MILLIONS  of  flowers  are  blowing  in   the 
fields;  — 

On  the  blue  river's  brink  the  peony ! 
Burns  red,  and  where  doves  coo  the  lute  is  heard, 
And  hoarse  black  crows  caw  to  the  eastern  wind. 

Under  the  plane-tree  in  the  shaded  grove, 
Screened  from  the  light  and  heat,  the  idler  sits, 
Brooding  above  his  chess-board  all  day  long, 
Nor  marks,  so  deep  his  dream,  how  fast  the  sun 
Descends  at  evening  to  its  western  house. 


CHINESE    SONGS.  239 

When  autumn  comes  men  close  their  doors  and 

read, 

Or  at  the  window  loll  to  catch  the  breeze 
Freighted  with  fragrance  from  the  cinnamon. 

The  snow  is  falling  on  the  balustrade, 

Like  dying  petals,  and  the  icicle 

Hangs  like  a  gem  ;  all  crowd  around  the  fire: 

Rich  men  now  drink  their  wine  with  merry  hearts, 

And  sing  old  songs,  nor  heed  the  blast  without. 


(Too-Mo) 

r  I  AHE  shadows  of  the  swallows 

•*•     Have  crossed  the  autumn  rivers,. 
Then  let  us  climb  the  mountains, 

And  friend  with  friend  carouse : 
We  '11  take  a  bottle  with  us, 
And  drink  like  merry  fellows, 
And  stagger  back  at  sunset, 

With  flowers  about  our  brows. 


24O         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

But  no  ;  let 's  drain  our  bottles 
At  noon  in  this  bright  garden, 
For  dark  and  sad  the  sunsets 

On  distant  mountains  shine. 
The  days  of  old  have  vanished ; 
Then  drink,  and  laugh,  to-day,  boys, 
Nor  stain  with  tears  your  garments,  — 

They  're  better  stained  with  wine ! 


(He-Kwdn) 

*  I  ^HE  farmer  cuts  the  So  leaves, 
-*-     And  weaves  his  rainy  cloak ; 
His  cot  is  on  the  hillside, 
You  see  it  by  the  smoke. 

His  rustic  wife  soon  hails  him, 
"  The  nice  boiled  pears  are  done." 

The  children  from  the  pea-field 
To  meet  their  daddy  run. 

In  the  shaded  lake  the  fishes 
Are  swimming  to  and  fro  ; 

The  little  birds  brush  each  other, 
As  back  to  the  hills  they  go. 


CHINESE    SONGS.  24! 

Crowds  will  be  going  and  coming, 
In  the  happy  season  of  flowers  ;  — 

But  could  I  find  the  philosopher's  stone, 
T  'd  fish  in  the  brook  for  hours. 


EAST,  or  west,  to  the  pastures, 
'  We  lead  our  herds  at  ease  ; 
Having  no  master  to  goad  us, 
We  spend  the  time  as  we  please. 

In  the  green  bamboos  together 
We  cut  our  reeds,  and  play ; 
Or  sit  in  the  long  grass  patching 

% 

Our  cloaks  for  a  rainy  day. 

Or  twist  the  ropes  of  the  heifers, 
And  make  them  stout  and  long,  - 

Tuning  our  merry  voices 

To  sing  the  herdsman's  song. 

We  point  at  the  restless  miser, 
And  laugh  in  his  face  with  glee  : 

"  Your  legs  are  mighty  travellers  ! 
What  can  the  matter  be  ? 
16 


242         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

"  Ride  who  will  on  horseback, 
The  cow  is  sure  and  strong." 

'Thus,  by  the  springs  in  the  coppice, 
We  sing  the  herdsman's  song. 


T1EFORE  the  scream  o'  th'  hawk 
•*-* .  The  timid  swallow  flies ; 
And  the  lake  unrolled  in  the  distance 
Like  a  silver  carpet  lies ! 

The  light  that  sleeps  i'  th'  air 

Like  the  breath  of  flowers  is  sweet ; 

The  very  dust  is  balmy 
Under  the  horses'  feet ! 

We  sit  in  the  tennis  court, 

Where  the  beautiful  sunlight  falls  ; 
The  mountains  crossed  by  bridges 

Come  down  to  the  city  walls. 

The  houses  are  hid  in  flowers, 

Buried  in  bloomy  trees  ; 
But  under  the  veils  of  the  willows 

Are  glimpses  of  cottages. 


CHINESE    SONGS.  243 

What  makes  the  wind  so  sweet  ? 

Is  it  the  breath  of  June  ? 
'T  is  the  jasper  flute  in  the  pear-tree, 

Playing  a  silent  tune  ! 


r  I  ^HE  dark  and  rainy  weather 

-*-     That  now  has  ta'en  its  flight 
Has  made  the  sunshine  brighter, 
And  filled  our  hearts  with  light. 

The  groves  are  full  of  song-birds, 
And  troops  of  butterflies 

Are  hovering  o'er  the  peach-trees, 
Like  blossoms  of  the  skies. 

The  flowers  that  have  not  faded, 
But  to  the  boughs  still  cling, 

Are  hanging  every  garden 
With  tapestries  of  spring. 

And  see,  the  happy  students, 
Have  met  by  scores  to  dine 

Beneath  the  willow  branches, 
And  drain  the  cups  of  wine ! 


244  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST- 


QTRETCHEDin  flowers  and  moonlight, 
^  The  poet  took  his  lute  ; 
His  mind  was  full  of  sweetness,— 
A  salver  heaped  with  fruit ! 

"The  odor  of  the  blossoms, 

It  breathes  upon  my  heart  ; 
But  the  thoughts  it  quickens 

No  language  can  impart. 

"  The  whiteness  of  the  blossoms, 
The  young  moon's  virgin  light, 

They  make  me  think  of  marriage, 
The  happy  bridal  night. 

"  I  see  a  troop  of  damsels, 

My  own  dear  love  I  see : 
They  are  willow  branches, 

A  peach  blossom,  she." 


CHINESE    SONGS.  245 


IT  grieves  the  bee  and  butterfly 
Because  they  strive  in  vain 
To  hoard  the  scent  of  flowers, 
Whose  honeyed  cups  they  drain  ! 

The  swallow  and  the  loriot 

Are  not  so  swift  of  wing, 
For  the  summer  overtakes  them, 

As  they  chase  the  sweets  of  spring 

It  is  the  King  o'  th*  East,  dear, 
That  makes  the  flowers  to  grow  ; 

Nor  can  the  rains  prevent  them, 
Nor  all  the  winds  that  blow  ! 


"XT  OW  the  wind  is  softest, 
-*•  ^     Lightest  now  the  shower, 
And  in  an  hour  the  barren  boughs 
Begin  to  bud  and  flower. 


246        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Happy  thoughts  are  brooding 

On  the  song  I  sing, 
As  to  the  arch  of  yonder  bridge 

The  mists  of  morning  cling. 

Pitiful  the  miser, 

Who  digs  the  earth  for  gold  ;  — 
For  me,  I  'd  sooner  hoard  the  snow, 

So  barren  and  so  cold ! 


No,  I  love  thee,  Sweetest, 
And  the  wandering  dove  ;  — 

I  send  her  with  a  sigh  to  thee, 
A  little  verse  of  love. 

"  Go  count  the  silken  tresses 
That  hang  on  yonder  tree  ; 

So  many  are  my  loving  thoughts, 
And  so  they  cling  to  thee  ! " 


CHINESE   SONGS.  247 


HpHE  grove  is  crowned  with  hoar-frost, 

•*•     And  clothed  in  robes  of  snow  ; 
But  buds  of  tender  purple 
On  all  the  branches  blow. 

They  rain  upon  the  river, 

As  winds  go  sweeping  by, 
Redden  the  waves  a  moment, 

And  then,  like  torches,  die  ! 

At  the  foot  of  yonder  gallery 

I  see  a  beauteous  girl  ; 
She  has  a  thousand  garments 

Of  satin  and  of  pearl ! 

The  blossoms  blush  to  meet  her  ;  — 

It  is  the  maiden  Spring, 
For  hark  !  among  the  branches 

I  hear  the  cuckoo  sing  ! 


248         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


(From  the  "  Shi  King.") 

I  HEAR  the  sacred  swan, 
In  its  river  island  sing  ; 
I  see  the  modest  maiden, 
A  consort  for  a  king  ! 

The  tendrils  of  the  Hang 
Are  green,  and  white  below, 

Along  the  running  waters 
Swaying  to  and  fro. 

The  king  has  sought  the  maid, 

His  passion  is  so  strong : 
And  day  and  night  he  murmurs, 

"  How  long,  alas  !  how  long  ! " 

He  turns  him  on  his  bed, 

He  tosses  in  his  woe ; 
His  thoughts  are  like  the  Hang  plants, 

Swaying  to  and  fro  ! 


CHINESE    SONGS.  249 

Again  I  hear  the  swan, 

In  a  palace  garden  sing  ; 
Again  I  see  the  maiden, 

The  consort  of  the  king! 

The  king  is  happy  now, 

For  see  !  the  maiden  comes, 
And  hark  !  the  bells  are  ringing, 

And  hark  !  the  noise  of  drums  ! 


THE    END. 


Cambridge  ;  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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JUN   14  1944 


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1962 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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